A  YOUNG  MAN 
IN  A  HURRY    * 

ROBERT     W.     CHAMBERS 


r 

RETURN  TO 

c. 

F.  WELLER, 

2102  WIRT  ST. 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

"Ma"  Crandell 


[See  p.  5 

"'GOOD   HEAVENS!'   HE   SAID.     "WHERE'S   MY   SISTKR?'" 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN 
A  HURRY 

AND  OTHER  SHORT  STORIES 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

AUTHOR  OP 

"  THE  MAIDS  OP  PARADISE  "  "  CARDIGAN  " 
"  THE  MAID-AT-ARMS  "  "  THE  KING  IN  YELLOW  "  ETC 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1904. 


TO 

MARGERY 


'"GOOD  HEAVENS!'  HE  SAID.    'WHERE'S  MY  SISTER?"'   Frontispiece 

"'l  LOVE  YOU  ENOUGH  TO  WAIT  A  MILLION  YEARS !'  "  Facing  p.  2O 
"'t    MEANT    TO    TAKE    SOME    FLOWERS,    ANYWAY*"       .        "  28 

"'HERE  ARE  THE  VIOLETS;  .  .  .  i  WILL  TIE  THEM  TO 

YOUR  COLLAR'" "       34 

"AWAY  THEY  WENT,  KNEE-DEEP    IN    DRY  SILVERY 

GRASSES" "      132 

"THERE  WAS  THAT  IN  BURLESON'S  EYES  THAT  SO 
BERED  HER" "      164 

"'l  WISH  YOU'D  GIVE  MARLITT  ANOTHER  CHANCE*"      "      242 

"HE  SAW  HER  THE  MOMENT  HE  ENTERED  THE  WIS 
TARIA  ARBOR" "      250 

V 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  A  HURRY 3 

A  PILGRIM 23 

THE  SHINING  BAND 51 

ONE  MAN  IN  A  MILLION -,.....  95 

THE  FIRE-WARDEN 123 

THE  MARKET-HUNTER ...171 

THE  PATH-MASTER 197 

IN  NAUVOO 223 

MARLITT'S  SHOES 241 

PASQUE  FLORIDA 263 

Vfl 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN    A   HURRY 


1-2 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN   A   HURRY 


"  Soyez  tranquilles,  mesdames.  .  .  .  Je  suis  un  jeune  homme 
press6.  .  .  .  Mais  modeste." — LABICHE. 

A i  ten  minutes  before  five  in  the  evening  the  office 
doors  of  the  Florida  and  Key  West  Railway  Com 
pany   flew   open,    and    a    young    man    emerged   in   a 
hurry. 

Suit-case  in  one  hand,  umbrella  in  the  other,  he 
sped  along  the  corridor  to  the  elevator-shaft,  arriving 
in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lighted  roof  of  the  cage 
sliding  into  depths  below. 

"Down!"  he  shouted;  but  the  glimmering  cage  dis 
appeared,  descending  until  darkness  enveloped  it. 

Then  the  young  man  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head, 
seized  the  suit-case  and  umbrella,  and  galloped  down  the 
steps.  The  spiral  marble  staircase  echoed  his  clattering 
flight;  scrub-women  heard  him  coming  and  fled;  he 
leaped  a  pail  of  water  and  a  mop;  several  old  gentlemen 
flattened  themselves  against  the  wall  to  give  him  room; 
and  a  blond  young  person  with  pencils  in  her  hair  lisped 
"Gee!"  as  he  whizzed  past  and  plunged  through  the 
storm-doors,  which  swung  back,  closing  behind  him 
with  a  hollow  thwack, 

3 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Outside  in  the  darkness,  gray  with  whirling  snow- 
flakes,  he  saw  the  wet  lamps  of  cabs  shining,  and  he 
darted  along  the  line  of  hansoms  and  coupe's  in  frantic 
search  for  his  own. 

"Oh,  there  you  are!"  he  panted,  flinging  his  suit-case 
up  to  a  snow-covered  driver.  "Do  your  best  now; 
we're  late!"  And  he  leaped  into  the  dark  coupe1,  slammed 
the  door,  and  sank  back  on  the  cushions,  turning  up  the 
collar  of  his  heavy  overcoat. 

There  was  a  young  lady  in  the  farther  corner  of  the 
cab,  buried  to  her  nose  in  a  fur  coat.  At  intervals  she 
shivered  and  pressed  a  fluffy  muff  against  her  face.  A 
glimmer  from  the  sleet-smeared  lamps  fell  across  her 
knees. 

Down-town  flew  the  cab,  swaying  around  icy  corners, 
bumping  over  car-tracks,  lurching,  rattling,  jouncing, 
while  its  silent  occupants,  huddled  in  separate  corners, 
brooded  moodily  at  their  respective  windows. 

Snow  blotted  the  glass,  melting  and  running  down; 
and  over  the  watery  panes  yellow  light  from  shop 
windows  played  fantastically,  distorting  vision. 

Presently  the  young  man  pulled  out  his  watch,  fumbled 
for  a  match-box,  struck  a  light,  and  groaned  as  he 
read  the  time. 

At  the  sound  of  the  match  striking,  the  young  lady 
turned  her  head.  Then,  as  the  bright  flame  illuminated 
the  young  man's  face,  she  sat  bolt  upright,  dropping  the 
muff  to  her  lap  with  a  cry  of  dismay. 

He  looked  up  at  her.  The  match  burned  his  fingers; 
he  dropped  it  and  hurriedly  lighted  another;  and  the 
flickering  radiance  brightened  upon  the  face  of  a  girl 
whom  he  had  never  before  laid  eyes  on. 

4 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Good  heavens!"  he  said.     "Where's  my  sister?" 

The  young  lady  was  startled,  but  resolute.  "You 
have  made  a  dreadful  mistake,"  she  said ;  "you  are  in  the 
wrong  cab — " 

The  match  went  out ;  there  came  a  brief  moment  of 
darkness,  then  the  cab  turned  a  corner,  and  the  ghostly 
light  of  electric  lamps  played  over  them  in  quivering 
succession. 

"Will  you  please  stop  this  cab?"  she  said,  unsteadily. 
"  You  have  mistaken  my  cab  for  yours.  I  was  expecting 
my  brother." 

Stunned,  he  made  no  movement  to  obey.  A  sudden 
thrill  of  fear  passed  through  her. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  stop  this  cab,"  she  faltered. 

The  idiotic  blankness  of  his  expression  changed  to 
acute  alarm. 

"Stop  this  cab?"  he  cried.  "Nothing  on  earth  can 
induce  me  to  stop  this  cab!" 

"You  must!"  she  insisted,  controlling  her  voice. 
"You  must  stop  it  at  once!" 

"How  can  I?"  he  asked,  excitedly;  "I'm  late  now; 
I  haven't  one  second  to  spare!" 

"Do  you  refuse  to  leave  this  cab?" 

"I  beg  that  you  will  compose  yourself — " 

"Will  you  go?"  she  insisted. 

A  jounce  sent  them  flying  towards  each  other;  they 
collided  and  recoiled,  regarding  one  another  in  breathless 
indignation. 

"This  is  simply  hideous!"  said  the  young  lady,  seizing 
the  door-handle. 

"Please  don't  open  that  door!"  he  said.  She  tried 
to  wrench  it  open;  the  handle  stuck — or  perhaps  the 

S 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

strength  had  left  her  wrist.     But  it  was  not  courage 
that  failed,  for  she  faced  him,  head  held  high,  and— 

"You  coward!"  she  said. 

Over  his  face  a  deep  flush  burned — and  it  was  a  good 
face,  too — youthfully  wilful,  perhaps,  with  a  firm,  clean- 
cut  chin  and  pleasant  eyes. 

"If  I  were  a  coward,"  he  said,  "I'd  stop  this  cab  and 
get  out.  I  never  faced  anything  that  frightened  me 
half  as  much  as  you  do!" 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  one  hand  twisting 
at  the  knob. 

"Don't  you  suppose  that  this  mistake  of  mine  is  as 
humiliating  and  unwelcome  to  me  as  it  is  to  you?"  he 
said.  "If  you  stop  this  cab  it  will  ruin  somebody's  life. 
Not  mine — if  it  were  my  own  life,  I  wouldn't  hesitate." 

Her  hand,  still  clasping  the  silver  knob,  suddenly 
fell  limp. 

"You  say  that  you  are  in  a  hurry?"  she  asked,  with 
dry  lips. 

"A  desperate  hurry,"  he  replied. 

"So  am  I,"  she  said,  bitterly;  "and,  thanks  to  your 
stupidity,  I  must  make  the  journey  without  my 
brother!" 

There  was  a  silence,  then  she  turned  towards  him 
again : 

"Where  do  you  imagine  this  cab  is  going?" 

"  It's  going  to  Cortlandt  Street — isn't  it  ?"  Suddenly 
the  recollection  came  to  him  that  it  was  her  cab,  and 
that  he  had  only  told  the  driver  to  drive  fast. 

The  color  left  his  face  as  he  pressed  it  to  the  sleet-shot 
window.  Fitful  flickers  of  light,  snow,  darkness — that 
was  all  he  could  see. 

6 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  turned  a  haggard  countenance  on  her;  he  was  at 
her  mercy.  But  there  was  nothing  vindictive  in  her. 

"  I  also  am  going  to  Cortlandt  Street;  you  need  not  be 
alarmed,"  she  said. 

The  color  came  back  to  his  cheeks.  "I  suppose,"  he 
ventured,  "that  you  are  trying  to  catch  the  Eden 
Limited,  as  I  am." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  coldly;  "my  brother — "  An  ex 
pression  of  utter  horror  came  into  her  face.  "What  on 
earth  shall  I  do?"  she  cried  ;  "my  brother  has  my  ticket 
and  my  purse!" 

A  lunge  and  a  bounce  sent  them  into  momentary 
collision;  a  flare  of  light  from  a  ferry  lantern  flashed  in 
their  faces;  the  cab  stopped  and  a  porter  jerked  open  the 
door,  crying: 

"  Eden  Limited  ?  You'd  better  hurry,  lady.  They're 
closin'  the  gates  now." 

They  sprang  out  into  the  storm,  she  refusing  his 
guiding  arm. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  said,  desperately.  "I  must 
go  on  that  train,  and  I  haven't  a  penny." 

"It's  all  right;  you'll  take  my  sister's  ticket,"  he  said, 
hurriedly  paying  the  cabman. 

A  porter  seized  their  two  valises  from  the  box  and 
dashed  towards  the  ferry -house;  they  followed  to  the 
turnstile,  where  the  tickets  were  clipped. 

"Now  we've  got  to  run!"  he  said.  And  off  they  sped, 
slipped  through  the  closing  gates,  and  ran  for  the  gang 
plank,  where  their  porter  stood  making  frantic  signs  for 
them  to  hasten.  It  was  a  close  connection,  but  they 
made  it,  to  the  unfeigned  amusement  of  the  passengers 
on  deck. 

7 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Sa-ay!"  drawled  a  ferry-hand,  giving  an  extra  twist 
to  the  wheel  as  the  chains  came  clanking  in,  "she  puts 
the  bunch  on  the  blink  f'r  a  looker.  Hey?" 

"Plenty,"  said  his  comrade;  adding,  after  a  moment's 
weary  deliberation,  "She's  his  tootsy-wootsy  sure.  B. 
and  G." 

The  two  young  people,  who  had  caught  the  boat  at 
the  last  second,  stood  together,  muffled  to  the  eyes, 
breathing  rapidly.  She  was  casting  tragic  glances  astern, 
where,  somewhere  behind  the  smother  of  snow,  New 
York  city  lay;  he,  certain  at  last  of  his  train,  stood 
beside  her,  attempting  to  collect  his  thoughts  and 
arrange  them  in  some  sort  of  logical  sequence. 

But  the  harder  he  thought,  the  more  illogical  the  entire 
episode  appeared.  How  on  earth  had  he  ever  come  to 
enter  a  stranger's  cab  and  drive  with  a  stranger  half 
a  mile  before  either  discovered  the  situation?  And 
what  blind  luck  had  sent  the  cab  to  the  destination 
he  also  was  bound  for  —  and  not  a  second  to  spare, 
either  ? 

He  looked  at  her  furtively;  she  stood  by  the  rail,  her 
fur  coat  white  with  snow. 

"The  poor  little  thing!"  he  thought.  And  he  said: 
"You  need  not  worry  about  your  section,  you  know. 
I  have  my  sister's  ticket  for  you." 

After  a  moment's  gloomy  retrospection  he  added: 
"When  your  brother  arrives  to  knock  my  head  off  I'm 
going  to  let  him  do  it." 

She  made  no  comment. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  you  ever  could  par 
don  what  I  have  done." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  never  could." 

8 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

A  brief  interval  passed,  disturbed  by  the  hooting 
of  a  siren. 

"If  you  had  stopped  the  cab  when  I  asked  you  to — " 
she  began. 

"If  I  had,"  he  said,  "neither  you  nor  I  could  have 
caught  this  train." 

"If  you  had  not  entered  my  cab,  I  should  have  been 
here  at  this  moment  with  my  brother,"  she  said.  "  Now 
I  am  here  with  you — penniless!" 

He  looked  at  her  miserably,  but  she  was  relentless. 

"It  is  the  cold  selfishness  of  the  incident  that  shocks 
me,"  she  said;  "it  is  not  the  blunder  that  offended 
me — "  She  stopped  short  to  give  him  a  chance  to 
defend  himself;  but  he  did  not.  "And  now,"  she  added, 
"you  have  reduced  me  to  the  necessity  of — borrowing 
money — " 

"Only  a  ticket,"  he  muttered. 

But  she  was  not  appeased,  and  her  silence  was  no 
solace  to  him. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  said:  "It's  horribly  cold  out 
here;  would  you  not  care  to  go  into  the  cabin?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  her  cheeks  grew  hot,  for  she 
had  heard  the  observations  of  the  ferrymen  as  the  boat 
left.  She  would  freeze  in  obscurity  rather  than  face  a 
lighted  cabin  full  of  people.  She  looked  at  the  porter 
who  was  carrying  their  valises,  and  the  dreadful  idea 
seized  her  that  he,  too,  thought  them  bride  and 
groom. 

Furious,  half  frightened,  utterly  wretched,  she  dared 
not  even  look  at  the  man  whose  unheard-of  stupidity 
had  inflicted  such  humiliation  upon  her. 

Tears  were  close  to  her  eyes;  she  swallowed,  set  her 

9 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

head  high,  and  turned  her  burning  cheeks  to  the  pelting 
snow. 

Oh,  he  should  rue  it  some  day!  When,  how,  where, 
she  did  not  trouble  to  think;  but  he  should  rue 
it,  and  his  punishment  should  leave  a  memory  in 
effaceable.  Pondering  on  his  future  tribulation,  stern 
ly  immersed  in  visions  of  justice,  his  voice  startled 
her: 

"The  boat  is  in.     Please  keep  close  to  me." 

Bump!  creak  —  ere  —  ak!  bump!  Then  came  the 
clank  of  wheel  and  chain,  and  the  crowded  cabin,  and 
pressing  throngs  which  crushed  her  close  to  his  shoulder ; 
and,  " Please  take  my  arm,"  he  said;  " I  can  protect  you 
better  so." 

A  long,  covered  way,  swarming  with  people,  a  glimpse 
of  a  street  and  whirling  snowflakes,  an  iron  fence  pierced 
by  gates  where  gilt-and-blue  officials  stood,  saying, 
monotonously:  "Tickets!  Please  show  your  tickets. 
This  way  for  the  Palmetto  Special.  The  Eden  Limited 
on  track  number  three." 

"Would  you  mind  holding  my  umbrella  a  moment?" 
he  asked. 

She  took  it. 

He  produced  the  two  tickets  and  they  passed  the 
gate,  following  a  porter  who  carried  their  luggage. 

Presently  their  porter  climbed  the  steps  of  a  sleeping- 
car.  She  followed  and  sat  down  beside  her  valise,  rest 
ing  her  elbow  on  the  polished  window-sill,  and  her 
flushed  cheek  on  her  hand. 

He  passed  her  and  continued  on  towards  the  end  of 
the  car,  where  she  saw  him  engage  in  animated  con 
versation  with  several  officials.  The  officials  shook 

10 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

their  heads,  and,  after  a  while,  he  came  slowly  back  to 
where  she  sat. 

"I  tried  to  exchange  into  another  car,"  he  said. 
"It  cannot  be  done." 

"Why  do  you  wish  to?"  she  asked,  calmly. 

"I  suppose  you  would — would  rather  I  did,"  he  said. 
"I'll  stay  in  the  smoker  all  I  can." 

She  made  no  comment.  He  stood  staring  gloomily 
at  the  floor. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I'm  not  quite 
as  selfish  as  you  think.  My — my  younger  brother  is  in 
a  lot  of  trouble  —  down  at  St.  Augustine.  I  couldn't 
have  saved  him  if  I  hadn't  caught  this  train.  ...  I  know 
you  can't  forgive  me;  so  I'll  say — so  I'll  ask  permis 
sion  to  say  good-bye." 

"Don't — please  don't  go,"  she  said,  faintly. 

He  wheeled  towards  her  again. 

"How  on  earth  am  I  to  dine  if  you  go  away?"  she 
asked.  "I've  a  thousand  miles  to  go,  and  I've  simply 
got  to  dine." 

"What  a  stupid  brute  I  am!"  he  said,  between  his 
teeth.  "I  try  to  be  decent,  but  I  can't.  I'll  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  to  spare  you — indeed  I  will.  Tell 
me,  would  you  prefer  to  dine  alone — 

"  Hush!  people  are  listening,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"It's  bad  enough  to  be  taken  for  bride  and  groom,  but 
if  people  in  this  car  think  we've  quarrelled  I — I  simply 
cannot  endure  it." 

"Who  took  us  for — that?"  he  whispered,  fiercely. 

"Those  people  behind  you;  don't  look!  I  heard  that 
horrid  little  boy  say,  'B.  and  G.!'  and  others  heard  it. 
I — I  think  you  had  better  sit  down  here  a  moment." 

ii 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  sat  down. 

"The  question  is,"  she  said,  with  heightened  color, 
"whether  it  is  less  embarrassing  for  us  to  be  civil  to 
each  other  or  to  avoid  each  other.  Everybody  has 
seen  the  porter  bring  in  our  luggage;  everybody  sup 
poses  we  are  at  least  on  friendly  terms.  If  I  go  alone 
to  the  dining-car,  and  you  go  alone,  gossip  will  begin. 
I  'm  miserable  enough  now — my  position  is  false  enough 
now.  I — I  cannot  stand  being  stared  at  for  thirty-six 
hours — " 

"If  you  say  so,  I'll  spread  the  rumor  that  you're  my 
sister,"  he  suggested,  anxiously.  "Shall  I?" 

Even  she  perceived  the  fatal  futility  of  that  sugges 
tion. 

"But  when  you  take  of  your  glove  everybody  will 
know  we're  not  B.  and  G.,"  he  insisted. 

She  hesitated;  a  delicate  flush  crept  over  her  face; 
then  she  nervously  stripped  the  glove  from  her  left  hand 
and  extended  it.  A  plain  gold  ring  encircled  the  third 
finger.  "What  shall  I  do?"  she  whispered.  "I  can't 
get  it  off.  I've  tried,  but  I  can't." 

"Does  it  belong  there?"  he  asked,  seriously. 

"You  mean,  am  I  married?  No,  no,"  she  said,  im 
patiently;  "it's  my  grandmother's  wedding-ring.  I 
was  just  trying  it  on  this  morning — this  morning  of  all 
mornings!  Think  of  it!" 

She  looked  anxiously  at  her  white  ringers,  then  at 
him. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  asked,  naively;  "I've 
tried  soap  and  cold-cream,  but  it  won't  come  off." 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  forced  laugh,  "Fate  appears 
to  be  personally  conducting  this  tour,  and  it's  probably 

12 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

all  right — "  He  hesitated.  "Perhaps  it's  better  than 
to  wear  no  ring — " 

"Why?"  she  asked,  innocently.  "Oh!  perhaps  it's 
better,  after  all,  to  be  mistaken  for  B.  and  G.  than  for 
a  pair  of  unchaperoned  creatures.  Is  that  what  you 
mean  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

There  came  a  gentle  jolt,  a  faint  grinding  sound,  a 
vibration  increasing.  Lighted  lanterns,  red  and  green, 
glided  past  their  window. 

"We've  started,"  he  said. 

Then  a  negro  porter  came  jauntily  down  the  aisle, 
saying  something  in  a  low  voice  to  everybody  as  he 
passed.  And  when  he  came  to  them  he  smiled  encour 
agement  and  made  an  extra  bow,  murmuring,  "First 
call  for  dinner,  if  you  please,  madam." 

They  were  the  centre  of  discreet  attention  in  the  din 
ing-car;  and  neither 'the  ring  on  her  wedding-finger  nor 
their  bearing  and  attitude  towards  each  other  were 
needed  to  confirm  the  general  conviction. 

He  tried  to  do  all  he  could  to  make  it  easy  for  her, 
but  he  didn't  know  how,  or  he  never  would  have  ordered 
rice  pudding  with  a  confidence  that  set  their  own  negro 
waiter  grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 

She  bit  her  red  lips  and  looked  out  of  the  window; 
but  the  window,  blackened  by  night  and  quicksilvered 
by  the  snow,  was  only  a  mirror  for  a  very  lovely  and  dis 
tressed  face. 

Indeed,  she  was  charming  in  her  supposed  r61e;  their 
fellow-passengers'  criticisms  were  exceedingly  favorable. 
Even  the  young  imp  who  had  pronounced  them  B.  and 
G.  with  infantile  unreserve  appeared  to  be  impressed  by 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

her  fresh,  young  beauty;  and  an  old  clergyman  across 
the  aisle  beamed  on  them  at  intervals,  and  every  beam 
was  a  benediction. 

As  for  them,  embarrassment  and  depression  were  at 
first  masked  under  a  polite  gayety;  but  the  excitement 
of  the  drama  gained  on  them;  appearances  were  to  be 
kept  up  in  the  roles  of  a  comedy  absolutely  forced  upon 
them;  and  that  brought  exhilaration. 

From  mental  self-absolution  they  ventured  on  men 
tally  absolving  each  other.  Fate  had  done  it!  Their 
consciences  were  free.  Their  situation  was  a  challenge 
in  itself,  and  to  accept  it  must  mean  to  conquer. 

Stirring  two  lumps  of  sugar  into  his  cup  of  coffee,  he 
looked  up  suddenly,  to  find  her  gray  eyes  meeting  his 
across  the  table.  They  smiled  like  friends. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  you  had  forgiven  me," 
he  said,  hopefully. 

"I  have" — she  frowned  a  little — "I  think  I  have." 

"And — you  do  not  think  me  a  coward ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  watching  him,  chin  propped  on  her 
linked  fingers. 

He  laughed  gratefully. 

"As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,"  he  observed,  "if  we  had 
met  anywhere  in  town — under  other  circumstances — 
there  is  no  reason  that  I  can  see  why  we  shouldn't  have 
become  excellent  friends." 

"No  reason  at  all,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  he  went  on,  dropping  his 
voice  and  leaning  across  the  table,  "I'm  going  to  send 
back  a  telegram  to  my  sister,  and  I  fancy  you  may  wish 
to  send  one  to  your  wandering  brother." 

14 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  suppose  I'd  better,"  she  said.  An  involuntary 
shiver  passed  over  her.  '"He's  probably  frantic,"  she 
added. 

"Probably,"  he  admitted. 

"My  father  and  mother  are  in  Europe,"  she  observed. 
"I  hope  my  brother  hasn't  cabled  them." 

"I  think  we'd  better  get  those  telegrams  off,"  he 
said,  motioning  the  waiter  to  bring  the  blanks  and  find 
pen  and  ink. 

They  waited,  gazing  meditatively  at  each  other. 
Presently  he  said: 

"I'd  like  to  tell  you  what  it  is  that  sends  me  flying 
down  to  Florida  at  an  hour's  notice.  I  think  some  ex 
planation  is  due  you — if  it  wouldn't  bore  you?" 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Why,  then,  it's  that  headlong  idiot  of  a  brother  of 
mine,"  he  explained.  "He's  going  to  try  to  marry  a 
girl  he  has  only  known  twenty-four  hours — a  girl  we 
never  heard  of.  And  I'm  on  my  way  to  stop  it! — the 
young  fool! — and  I'll  stop  it  if  I  have  to  drag  him  home 
by  the  heels!  Here's  the  telegram  we  got  late  this 
afternoon — a  regular  bombshell."  He  drew  the  yellow 
bit  of  paper  from  his  breast-pocket,  unfolded  it,  and  read : 

"  '  ST.  AUGUSTINE,  FLORIDA. 

"  '  I  am  going  to  marry  to-morrow  the  loveliest  girl  in  the 
United  States.  Only  met  her  yesterday.  Love  at  first  sight. 
You'll  all  worship  her!  She's  eighteen,  a  New-Yorker,  and  her 
name  is  Marie  Hetherford.  JIM.'  " 

He  looked  up  angrily.  "What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 
he  demanded. 

"Think?"  she  stammered— "think?"     She  dropped 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

her  hands  helplessly,  staring  at  him.  "Marie  Hether- 
ford  is  my  sister!"  she  said. 

"Your — sister,"  he  repeated,  after  a  long  pause — 
"your  sister!" 

She  pressed  a  white  hand  to  her  forehead,  clearing  her 
eyes  with  a  gesture. 

"  Isn't  it  too  absurd!"  she  said,  dreamily.  "  My  sister 
sent  us  a  telegram  like  yours.  Our  parents  are  abroad. 
So  my  brother  and  I  threw  some  things  into  a  trunk  and 
— and  started!  Oh,  did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  like 
this?" 

"Your  sister!"  he  repeated,  dazed.  "My  brother 
and  your  sister.  And  I  am  on  my  way  to  stop  it;  and 
you  are  on  your  way  to  stop  it — 

She  began  to  laugh — not  hysterically,  but  it  was  not 
a  natural  laugh. 

"And,"  he  went  on,  "I've  lost  another  sister  in  the 
shuffle,  and  you've  lost  another  brother  in  the  shuffle, 
and  now  there's  a  double-shuffle  danced  by  you  and 
me—" 

"Don't.     Don't!"  she  said,  faint  from  laughter. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  he  said.  "And  I'll  say  more!  I'll  say 
that  Destiny  is  taking  exclusive  charge  of  our  two 
families,  and  it  would  not  surprise  me  if  your  brother 
and  my  sister  were  driving  around  New  York  together 
at  this  moment  looking  for  us!" 

Their  laughter  infected  the  entire  dining-car;  every 
waiter  snickered;  the  enfant  terrible  grinned;  the  aged 
minister  of  the  Church  of  England  beamed  a  rapid  fire 
of  benedictions  on  them. 

But  they  had  forgotten  everybody  except  each  other. 
'  From  what  I  hear  and  from  what  I  know  personally 
16 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

of  your  family,"  she  said,  "it  seems  to  me  that  they 
never  waste  much  time  about  anything." 

"We  are  rather  in  that  way,"  he  admitted.  "  I  have 
been  in  a  hurry  from  the  time  you  first  met  me — and 
you  see  what  my  brother  is  going  to  do." 

"Going  to  do?     Are  you  going  to  let  him?" 

"Let  him?"-  He  looked  steadily  at  her,  and  she 
returned  the  gaze  as  steadily.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I'm 
going  to  let  him.  And  if  I  tried  to  stop  him  I'd  get 
my  deserts.  I  think  I  know  my  brother  Jim.  And  I 
fancy  it  would  take  more  than  his  brother  to  drag  him 
away  from  your  sister."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "Is 
she  like — like  you?" 

"A  year  younger — yes,  we  are  alike.  .  .  .  And  you 
say  that  you  are  going  to  let  him — marry  her?" 

"Yes — if  you  don't  mind." 

The  challenge  was  in  his  eyes,  and  she  accepted  it. 

"Is  your  brother  Jim  like  you?" 

"A  year  younger — yes.  .  .  .  May  he  marry  her?" 

She  strove  to  speak  easily,  but  to  her  consternation 
she  choked,  and  the  bright  color  dyed  her  face  from 
neck  to  hair. 

This  must  not  be:  she  must  answer  him.  To  flinch 
now  would  be  impossible  —  giving  a  double  meaning 
and  double  understanding  to  a  badinage  light  as  air. 
Alas!  77  ne  faut  pas  badiner  avec  V amour !  Then  she 
answered,  saying  too  much  in  an  effort  to  say  a  little 
with  careless  and  becoming  courage. 

"  If  he  is  like  you,  he  may  marry  her.  ...  I  am  glad  he 
is  your  brother." 

The  answering  fire  burned  in  his  face;  she  met  his 
eyes,  and  twice  her  own  fell  before  their  message. 

17 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  the  table,  hot  face 
between  his  hands;  a  careless  attitude  for  others  to 
observe,  but  a  swift  glance  warned  her  what  was  com 
ing — coming  in  a  low,  casual  voice,  checked  at  inter 
vals  as  though  he  were  swallowing. 

"You  are  the  most  splendid  girl  I  ever  knew."  He 
dropped  one  hand  and  picked  up  a  flower  that  had 
slipped  from  her  finger-bowl.  "You  are  the  only  per 
son  in  the  world  who  will  not  think  me  crazy  for  say 
ing  this.  We're  a  headlong  race.  Will  you  marry 
me?" 

She  bent  her  head  thoughtfully,  pressing  her  mouth 
to  her  clasped  fingers.  Her  attitude  was  repose  itself. 

"Are  you  offended?"  he  asked,  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

There  was  a  slight  negative  motion  of  her  head. 

A  party  of  assorted  travellers  rose  from  their  table 
and  passed  them,  smiling  discreetly;  the  old  minister 
across  the  aisle  mused  in  his  coffee-cup,  caressing  his 
shaven  face  with  wrinkled  fingers.  The  dining  -  car 
grew  very  still. 

"It's  in  the  blood,"  he  said,  under  his  breath;  "my 
grandparents  eloped ;  my  father's  courtship  lasted  three 
days  from  the  time  he  first  met  my  mother — you  see 
what  my  brother  has  done  in  twenty-four  hours.  .  .  .  We 
do  things  more  quickly  in  these  days.  .  .  .  Please — please 
don't  look  so  unhappy!" 

"I — I  am  not  unhappy.  ...  I  am  willing  to — hear 
you.  You  were  saying  something  about — about — 

"About  love." 

"I — think  so.     Wait  until  those  people  pass!" 

He  waited,  apparently  hypnotized  by  the  beauty  of 

18 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

the  car  ceiling.  Then :  "  Of  course,  if  you  were  not  going 
to  be  my  sister-in-law  to-morrow,  I'd  not  go  into  family 
matters." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  murmured. 

So  he  gave  her  a  brief  outline  of  his  own  affairs,  and 
she  listened  with  bent  head  until  there  came  the  pause 
which  was  her  own  cue. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?"  she  asked,  innocently. 

"It — it — why,  because  I  love  you." 

On  common  ground  once  more,  she  prepared  for  bat 
tle,  but  to  her  consternation  she  found  the  battle  al 
ready  ended  and  an  enemy  calmly  preparing  for  her 
surrender. 

"But  when — when  do  you  propose  to — to  do  this?" 
she  asked,  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

"Now,"  he  said,  firmly. 

"Now?     Marry  me  at  once?" 

"I  love  you  enough  to  wait  a  million  years — but  I 
won't.  I  always  expected  to  fall  in  love;  I've  rather 
fancied  it  would  come  like  this  when  it  came;  and  I 
swore  I'd  never  let  the  chance  slip  by.  We're  a  head 
long  family — but  a  singularly  loyal  one.  We  love  but 
once  in  our  lifetime;  and  when  we  love  we  know  it." 

"Do  you  think  that  this  is  that  one  time?" 

"There  is  no  doubt  left  in  me." 

"Then" — she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  lean 
ing  heavily  on  the  table — "then  what  on  earth  are  we 
to  do?" 

"Promise  each  other  to  love." 

"Do  you  promise?" 

"Yes,  I  do  promise,  forever.     Do  you?" 

She  looked  up,  pale  as  a  ghost.     "Yes,"  she  said. 

19 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Then — please  say  it,"  he  whispered. 

Some  people  rose  and  left  the  car.  She  sat  apparent 
ly  buried  in  colorless  reverie.  Twice  her  voice  failed 
her;  he  bent  nearer;  and — 

"I  love  you,"  she  said. 


"'l     I.OVE    YOU    ENOUGH    TO    WAIT    A    MILLION    YEARS  ! 


A    PILGRIM 


A    PILGRIM 


THE  servants  had  gathered  in  the  front  hall  to  in 
spect  the  new  arrival — cook,  kitchen-maid,  butler, 
flanked  on  the  right  by  parlor-maids,  on  the  left  by  a 
footman  and  a  small  buttons. 

The  new  arrival  was  a  snow-white  bull-terrier,  alert, 
ardent,  quivering  in  expectation  of  a  welcome  among 
these  strangers,  madly  wagging  his  whiplike  tail  in  pas 
sionate  silence. 

When  the  mistress  of  the  house  at  last  came  down  the 
great  stone  stairway,  the  servants  fell  back  in  a  semi 
circle,  leaving  her  face  to  face  with  the  white  bull- 
terrier. 

"So  that  is  the  dog!"  she  said,  in  faint  astonishment. 
A  respectful  murmur  of  assent  corroborated  her  con 
clusion. 

;.-The  dog's  eyes  met  hers;  she  turned  to  the  servants 
vffth  a  perplexed  gesture. 

"Is  the  brougham  at  the  door?"  asked  the  young 
mistress  of  the  house. 

The  footman  signified  that  it  was. 

"Then  tell  Phelan  to  come  here  at  once." 

23 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Phelan,  the  coachman,  arrived,  large,  rosy,  freshly 
shaven,  admirably  correct.. 

"Phelan,"  said  the  young  mistress,  "look  at  that 
dog." 

The  coachman  promptly  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  wag 
ging  bull-terrier.  In  spite  of  his  decorous  gravity  a 
smile  of  distinct  pleasure  slowly  spread  over  his  square, 
pink  face  until  it  became  a  subdued  simper. 

"Is  that  a  well-bred  dog,  Phelan?"  demanded  the 
young  mistress. 

"It  is,  ma'am,"  replied  Phelan,  promptly. 

"Very  well  bred?" 

"Very,  ma'am." 

"Dangerous?" 

"In  a  fight,  ma'am."  Stifled  enthusiasm  swelled  the 
veins  in  the  coachman's  forehead.  Triumphant  paeans 
of  praise  for  the  bull-terrier  trembled  upon  his  lips ;  but 
he  stood  rigid,  correct,  a  martyr  to  his  perfect  training. 

"Say  what  you  wish  to  say,  Phelan,"  prompted  the 
young  mistress,  with  a  hasty  glance  at  the  dog. 

"Thanky,  ma'am.  .  .  .  The  bull  is  the  finest  I  ever  laid 
eyes  on.  .  .  .  He  hasn't  a  blemish,  ma'am;  and  the  three 
years  of  him  doubled  will  leave  him  three  years  to  his 
prime,  ma'am.  .  .  .  And  there's  never  another  bull,  nor 
a  screw-tail,  nor  cross,  be  it  mastiff  or  fox  or  whippet, 
ma'am,  that  can  loose  the  holt  o'  thim  twin  jaws.  .  .  . 
Beg  pardon,  ma'am,  I  know  the  dog." 

"You  mean  that  you  have  seen  that  dog  before?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;  he  won  his  class  from  a  pup  at  the 
Garden.  That  is  'His  Highness,"  ma'am,  Mr.  Lang- 
ham's  champion  three-year." 

She  had  already  stooped  to  caress  the  silent,  eager 

24 


A    PILGRIM 

dog — timidly,  because  she  had  never  before  owned  a 
dog — but  at  the  mention  of  his  master's  name  she  drew 
back  sharply  and  stood  erect. 

"Never  fear,  ma'am,"  said  the  coachman,  eagerly; 
"he  won't  bite,  ma'am — " 

"Mr.  Langham's  dog?"  she  repeated,  coldly;  and 
then,  without  another  glance  at  either  the  dog  or  the 
coachman,  she  turned  to  the  front  door;  buttons  swung 
it  wide  with  infantile  dignity;  a  moment  later  she  was 
in  her  brougham,  with  Phelan  on  the  box  and  the  rigid 
footman  expectant  at  the  window. 


II 

Seated  in  a  corner  of  her  brougham,  she  saw  the  world 
pass  on  flashing  wheels  along  the  asphalt;  she  saw  the 
April  sunshine  slanting  across  brown-stone  mansions 
and  the  glass-fronted  fagades  of  shops;  .  .  .  she  looked 
without  seeing. 

So  Langham  had  sent  her  his  dog!  In  the  first  year 
of  her  widowhood  she  had  first  met  Langham;  she  was 
then  twenty-one.  In  the  second  year  of  her  widow 
hood  Langham  had  offered  himself,  and,  with  the  dec 
laration  on  his  lips,  had  seen  the  utter  hopelessness  of 
his  offer.  They  had  not  met  since  then.  And  now, 
in  the  third  year  of  her  widowhood,  he  offered  her  his 
dog! 

She  had  at  first  intended  to  keep  the  dog.  Knowing 
nothing  of  animals,  discouraged  from  all  sporting  fads 
by  a  husband  who  himself  was  devoted  to  animals  dedi 
cated  to  sport,  she  had  quietly  acquiesced  in  her  hus- 

25 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

band's  dictum  that  "  horse-women  and  dog- women  made 
a  man  ill!" — and  so  dismissed  any  idea  she  might  have 
entertained  towards  the  harboring  of  the  four-footed. 

A  miserable  consciousness  smote  her:  why  had  she  al 
lowed  the  memory  of  her  husband  to  fade  so  amazingly 
in  these  last  two  months  of  early  spring?  Of  late, 
when  she  wished  to  fix  her  thoughts  upon  her  late  hus 
band  and  to  conjure  his  face  before  her  closed  eyes,  she 
found  that  the  mental  apparition  came  with  more  and 
more  difficulty. 

Sitting  in  a  corner  of  her  brougham,  the  sharp  rhythm 
of  her  horses'  hoofs  tuning  her  thoughts,  she  quietly  en 
deavored  to  raise  that  cherished  mental  spectre,  but 
could  not,  until  by  hazard  she  remembered  the  por 
trait  of  her  husband  hanging  in  the  smoking-room. 

But  instantly  she  strove  to  put  that  away;  the  por 
trait  was  by  Sargent,  a  portrait  she  had  always  disliked, 
because  the  great  painter  had  painted  an  expression 
into  her  husband's  face  which  she  had  never  seen  there. 
An  aged  and  unbearable  aunt  of  hers  had  declared  that 
Sargent  painted  beneath  the  surface;  she  resented  the 
suggestion,  because  what  she  read  beneath  the  surface 
of  her  husband's  portrait  sent  hot  blood  into  her  face. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  she  saw  the  spring  sunshine 
gilding  the  gray  branches  of  the  park  trees.  Here  and 
there  elms  spread  tinted  with  green;  chestnuts  and 
maples  were  already  in  the  full  glory  of  new  leaves ;  the 
leafless  twisted  tangles  of  wistaria  hung  thick  with 
scented  purple  bloom;  everywhere  the  scarlet  blossoms 
of  the  Japanese  quince  glowed  on  naked  shrubs,  bedded 
in  green  lawns. 

Her  husband  had  loved  the  country.  .  .  .  There  was 

26 


A    PILGRIM 

one  spot  in  the  world  which  he  had  loved  above  all 
others — the  Sagamore  Angling  Club.  She  had  never 
been  there.  But  she  meant  to  go.  Probably  to-mor 
row.  .  .  .  And  before  she  went  she  must  send  that  dog 
back  to  Langham. 

At  the  cathedral  she  signalled  to  stop,  and  sent  the 
brougham  back,  saying  she  would  walk  home.  And  the 
first  man  she  met  was  Langham. 


Ill 

There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  it.  His  club 
was  there  on  the  corner,  and  it  was  exactly  his  hour  for 
the  club. 

"It  is  so  very  fortunate  .  .  .  for  me,"  he  said.  "I 
did  want  to  see  you.  ...  I  am  going  north  to-morrow." 

"Of  course  it's  about  the  dog,"  she  said,  pleasantly. 

He  laughed.  "I  am  so  glad  that  you  will  accept 
him — " 

"But  I  can't,"  she  said;  .  .  .  "and  thank  you  so 
much  for  asking  me." 

For  a  moment  his  expression  touched  her,  but  she 
could  not  permit  expressions  ot  men's  faces  to  arouse 
her  compunction,  so  she  turned  her  eyes  resolutely 
ahead  towards  the  spire  of  the  marble  church. 

He  walked  beside  her  in  silence. 

"  I  also  am  going  north  to-morrow,"  she  said,  politely. 

He  did  not  answer. 

Every  day  since  her  widowhood,  every  day  for  three 
years,  she  had  decided  to  make  that  pilgrimage  .  .  . 
some  time.  And  now,  crossing  Union  Square  on  that 

27 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

lovely  afternoon  late  in  April,  she  knew  that  the  time 
had  come.  Not  that  there  was  any  reason  for  haste. 
...  At  the  vague  thought  her  brown  eyes  rested  a  mo 
ment  on  the  tall  young  man  beside  her.  .  .  . 

Yes  .  .  .  she  would  go  ...  to-morrow. 

A  vender  of  violets  shuffled  up  beside  them;  Lang- 
ham  picked  up  a  dewy  bundle  of  blossoms,  and  their 
perfume  seemed  to  saturate  the  air  till  it  tasted  on  the 
tongue. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  no,  please;  the  fragrance 
is  too  heavy."  .  .  . 

"Won't  you  accept  them?"  he  inquired,  bluntly. 

Again  she  shook  her  head ;  there  was  indecision  in  the 
smile,  assent  in  the  gesture.  However,  he  perceived 
neither. 

She  took  a  short  step  forward.  The  wind  whipped 
the  fountain  jet,  and  a  fanlike  cloud  of  spray  drifted 
off  across  the  asphalt.  Then  they  moved  on  together. 

Presently  she  said,  quietly,  "I  believe  I  will  carry  a 
bunch  of  those  violets;"  and  she  waited  for  him  to  go 
back  through  the  fountain  spray,  find  the  peddler,  and 
rummage  among  the  perfumed  heaps  in  the  basket. 
"Because,"  she  added,  cheerfully,  as  he  returned  with 
the  flowers,  "I  am  going  to  the  East  Tenth  Street  Mis 
sion,  and  I  meant  to  take  some  flowers,  anyway." 

"  If  you  would  keep  that  cluster  and  let  me  send  the 
whole  basket  to  your  mission—"  he  began. 

But  she  had  already  started  on  across  the  wet  pave 
ment. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  going  to  give  my  flowers 
to  those  cripples,"  he  said,  keeping  pace  with  her. 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked,  but  she  had  not  meant 

28 


I    MEANT    TO    TAKE     SOME     FLOWERS,     ANYWAY 


A    PILGRIM 

to  say  that,  and  she  walked  a  little  more  quickly  to 
escape  the  quick  reply. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  he  said,  after  a  mo 
ment's  brisk  walking.  "I  wish — if  you  don't  mind — I 
wish  you  would  walk  around  the  square  with  me — just 
once — " 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said;  "and  now  you  will  say 
good-bye — because  you  are  going  away,  you  say."  She 
had  stopped  at  the  Fourth  Avenue  edge  of  the  square. 
"  So  good-bye,  and  thank  you  for  the  beautiful  dog,  and 
for  the  violets." 

"But  you  won't  keep  the  dog,  and  you  won't  keep 
the  violets,"  he  said;  "and,  besides,  if  you  are  going 
north—" 

"Good-bye,"  she  repeated,  smiling. 
1 — besides,"  he  went  on,  "  I  would  like  to  know  where 
you  are  going." 

"That,"  she  said,  "is  what  I  do  not  wish  to  tell  you 
— or  anybody." 

There  was  a  brief  silence ;  the  charm  of  her  bent  head 
distracted  him. 

"If  you  won't  go,"  she  said,  with  caprice,  "I  will 
walk  once  around  the  square  with  you,  but  it  is  the 
silliest  thing  I  have  ever  done  in  my  entire  life." 

"Why  won't  you  keep  the  bull-terrier?"  he  asked, 
humbly. 

"Because  I'm  going  north — for  one  reason." 

"Couldn't  you  take  His  Highness?" 

"No — that  is,  I  could,  but — I  can't  explain — he 
would  distract  me." 

"Shall  I  take  him  back,  then?" 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  surprised. 

29 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I — only  I  thought  if  you  did  not  care  for  him — "  he 
stammered.  "You  see,  I  love  the  dog." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  bent  her  eyes  on  the 'ground. 
Again  he  quickened  his  pace  to  keep  step  with  her. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  searching  about  for  the  right 
phrase,  "I  wanted  you  to  have  something  that  I  could 
venture  to  offer  you — er — something  not  valuable — er 
— I  mean  not — er — >: 

"Your  dog  is  a  very  valuable  champion;  everybody 
knows  that,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"Oh  yes — he's  a  corker  in  his  line;  out  of  Empress 
by  Ameer,  you  know — " 

"I  might  manage  ...  to  keep  him  .  .  .  for  a  while," 
she  observed,  without  enthusiasm.  "At  all  events,  I 
shall  tie  my  violets  to  his  collar." 

He  watched  her;  the  roar  of  Broadway  died  out  in 
his  ears;  in  hers  it  grew,  increasing,  louder,  louder. 
A  dim  scene  rose  unbidden  before  her  eyes — the  high 
gloom  of  a  cathedral,  the  great  organ's  first  unsteady 
throbbing  —  her  wedding-march!  No,  not  that;  for 
while  she  stood,  coldly  transfixed  in  centred  self -ab 
sorption,  she  seemed  to  see  a  shapeless  mass  of  wreaths 
piled  in  the  twilight  of  an  altar — the  dreadful  pomp 
and  panoply  and  circumstance  of  death — 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  man  beside  her;  her  whole 
being  vibrated  with  the  menace  of  a  dirge,  and  in  the 
roar  of  traffic  around  her  she  divined  the  imprisoned 
thunder  of  the  organ  pealing  for  her  dead. 

She  turned  her  head  sharply  towards  the  west. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  in  the  voice  of  a  man  who 
needs  no  answer  to  his  question. 

She  kept  her  head  steadily  turned.  Through  Fif- 

30 


A    PILGRIM 

teenth  Street  the  sun  poured  a  red  light  that  deepened 
as  the  mist  rose  from  the  docks.  She  heard  the  river 
whistles  blowing ;  an  electric  light  broke  out  through  the 
bay  haze. 

It  was  true  she  was  thinking  of  her  husband — think 
ing  of  him  almost  desperately,  distressed  that  already 
he  should  have  become  to  her  nothing  more  vital  than 
a  memory. 

Unconscious  of  the  man  beside  her,  she  stood  there 
in  the  red  glow,  straining  eyes  and  memory  to  focus 
both  on  a  past  that  receded  and  seemed  to  dwindle  to 
a  point  of  utter  vacancy. 

Then  her  husband's  face  grew  out  of  vacancy,  so  real, 
so  living,  that  she  started — to  find  herself  walking  slow 
ly  past  the  fountain  with  Langham  at  her  side. 

After  a  moment  she  said:  "Now  we  have  walked  all 
around  the  square.  Now  I  am  going  to  walk  home;  .  .  . 
and  thank  you  .  .  .  for  my  walk,  .  .  .  which  was  prob 
ably  as  wholesome  a  performance  as  I  could  have  in 
dulged  in — and  quite  unconventional  enough,  even  for 
you." 

They  faced  about  and  traversed  the  square,  crossed 
Broadway  in  silence,  passed  through  the  kindling  shad 
ows  of  the  long  cross -street,  and  turned  into  Fifth 
Avenue. 

"You  are  very  silent,"  she  said,  sorry  at  once  that 
she  had  said  it,  uncertain  as  to  the  trend  his  speech 
might  follow,  and  withal  curious. 

"It  was  only  about  that  dog,"  he  said. 

She  wondered  if  it  was  exactly  that,  and  decided  it 
was  not.  It  was  not.  He  was  thinking  of  her  hus 
band  as  he  had  known  him — only  by  sight  and  by  report. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  remembered  the  florid  gentleman  perfectly;  he  had 
often  seen  him  tooling  his  four;  he  had  seen  him  at  the 
traps  in  Monte  Carlo,  dividing  with  the  best  shot  in 
Italy ;  he  had  seen  him  riding  to  hounds  a  few  days  be 
fore  that  fatal  run  of  the  Shadowbrook  Hunt,  where  he 
had  taken  his  last  fence.  Once,  too,  he  had  seen  him 
at  the  Sagamore  Angling  Club  up  state. 

"When  are  you  going?"  he  said,  suddenly. 

"To-morrow." 

"I  am  not  to  know  where?" 

"Why  should  you?"  and  then,  a  little  quickly:  "No, 
no.  It  is  a  pilgrimage." 

"When  you  return — "  he  began,  but  she  shook  her 
head. 

"No,  .  .  .  no.     I  do  not  know  where  I  may  be." 

In  the  April  twilight  the  electric  lamps  along  the 
avenue  snapped  alight.  The  air  rang  with  the  metallic 
chatter  of  sparrows. 

They  mounted  the  steps  of  her  house ;  she  turned  and 
swept  the  dim  avenue  with  a  casual  glance. 

"So  you,  too,  are  going  north?"  she  asked,  pleas 
antly. 

"Yes— to-night." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  She  felt  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  on  her  gloved  fingers  after  he  had  gone,  although 
their  hands  had  scarcely  touched  at  all. 

And  so  she  went  into  the  dimly  lighted  house,  through 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  quite  dark,  into  the  music- 
room  beyond;  and  there  she  sat  down  upon  a  chair  by 
the  piano — a  little  gilded  chair  that  revolved  as  she 
pushed  herself  idly,  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the 
left. 

32 


A    PILGRIM 

Yes,  .  .  .  after  all,  she  would  go;  ...  she  would 
make  that  pilgrimage  to  the  spot  on  earth  her  husband 
loved  best  of  all — the  sweet  waters  of  the  Sagamore, 
where  his  beloved  club  lodge  stood,  and  whither,  for 
a  month  every  year,  he  had  repaired  with  some  old 
friends  to  renew  a  bachelor's  love  for  angling. 

She  had  never  accompanied  him  on  these  trips;  she 
instinctively  divined  a  man's  desire  for  a  ramble  among 
old  haunts  with  old  friends,  freed  for  a  brief  space  from 
the  happy  burdens  of  domesticity. 

The  lodge  on  the  Sagamore  was  now  her  shrine ;  there 
she  would  rest  and  think  of  him,  follow  his  footsteps  to 
his  best-loved  haunts,  wander  along  the  rivers  where 
he  had  wandered,  dream  by  the  streams  where  he  had 
dreamed. 

She  had  married  her  husband  out  of  awe,  sheer  awe 
for  his  wonderful  personality.  And  he  was  wonderful; 
faultless  in  everything — though  not  so  faultless  as  to 
be  in  bad  taste,  she  often  told  herself.  His  entourage 
also  was  faultless;  and  the  general  faultlessness  of  every 
thing  had  made  her  married  life  very  perfect. 

As  she  sat  thinking  in  the  darkened  music-room, 
something  stirred  in  the  hallway  outside.  She  raised 
her  eyes ;  the  white  bull-terrier  stood  in  the  lighted  door 
way,  looking  in  at  her. 

A  perfectly  incomprehensible  and  resistless  rush  of 
loneliness  swept  her  to  her  feet;  in  a  moment  she  was 
down  on  the  floor  again,  on  her  silken  knees,  her  arms 
around  the  dog,  her  head  pressed  tightly  to  his  head. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  choking,  "I  must  go  to-morrow — I 
must — I  must.  .  .  .  And  here  are  the  violets;  ...  I  will 
tie  them  to  your  collar.  .  .  .  Hold  still!  .  .  .  He  loves  you; 
3  33 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

.  .  .  but  you  shall  not  have  them — do  you  hear  ?  .  .  . 
No,  no,  .  .  .  for  I  shall  wear  them,  .  .  .  for  I  like  their 
odor;  .  .  .  and,  anyway,  ...  I  am  going  away."  .  .  . 


IV 

The  next  day  she  began  her  pilgrimage;  and  His 
Highness  went  with  her;  and  a  maid  from  the  British 
Isles. 

She  had  telegraphed  to  the  Sagamore  Club  for  rooms, 
to  make  sure,  but  that  was  unnecessary,  because  there 
were  at  the  moment  only  three  members  of  the  club  at 
the  lodge. 

Now  although  she  herself  could  scarcely  be  considered 
a  member  of  the  Sagamore  Angling  Club,  she  still  con 
trolled  her  husband's  shares  in  the  concern,  and  she 
was  duly  and  impressively  welcomed  by  the  steward. 
Two  of  the  three  members  domiciled  there  came  up  to 
pay  their  respects  when  she  alighted  from  the  muddy 
buckboard  sent  to  the  railway  to  meet  her;  they  were 
her  husband's  old  friends,  Colonel  Hyssop  and  Major 
Brent,  white  -  haired,  purple  -  faced,  well  -  groomed  gen 
tlemen  in  the  early  fifties.  The  third  member  was  out 
in»the  rain  fishing  somewhere  down-stream. 

"New  man  here,  madam — a  good  fellow,  but  a  bad 
rod — eh,  Brent?" 

"Bad  rod,"  repeated  Major  Brent,  wagging  his  fat 
head.  "  Uses  ferrules  to  a  six-ounce  rod.  We  splice — 
eh,  Colonel?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Colonel. 

She  stood  by  the  open  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  hall- 

34 


'HERE    ARE    THE    VIOLETS;     ...     1    WILL    TIE    THEM    TO    YOUR 
COLLAR ' " 


A    PILGRIM 

way,  holding  her  shapely  hands  out  towards  the  blaze, 
while  her  maid  relieved  her  of  the  wet  rain-coat. 

"Splice  what,  Colonel  Hyssop,  if  you  please?"  she 
inquired,  smiling. 

"Splice  our  rods,  madam  —  no  creaky  joints  and 
ferrules  for  old  hands  like  Major  Brent  and  me,  ma'am. 
Do  you  throw  a  fly?" 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "I — I  do 
nothing." 

"Except  to  remain  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
five  boroughs!"  said  the  Major,  with  a  futile  attempt 
to  bend  at  the  waist — utterly  unsuccessful,  yet  impres 
sive. 

She  dropped  him  a  courtesy,  then  took  the  glass  of 
sherry  that  the  steward  brought  and  sipped  it,  medita 
tive  eyes  on  the  blazing  logs.  Presently  she  held  out 
the  empty  wine-glass ;  the  steward  took  it  on  his  heavy 
silver  salver;  she  raised  her  eyes.  A  half-length  por 
trait  of  her  husband  stared  at  her  from  over  the  mantel, 
lighted  an  infernal  red  in  the  fire-glow. 

A  catch  in  her  throat,  a  momentary  twitch  of  the 
lips,  then  she  gazed  calmly  up  into  the  familiar  face. 

Under  the  frame  of  the  picture  was  written  his  full 
hyphenated  name;  following  that  she  read: 

PRESIDENT  AND  FOUNDER 

OF 

THE  SAGAMORE  ANGLING  CLUB 
1880 — 1901 

Major  Brent  and  Colonel  Hyssop  observed  her  in 
decorously  suppressed  sympathy. 

35 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  did  not  know  he  was  president,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment;  "he  never  told  me  that." 

"Those  who  knew  him  best  understood  his  rare  mod 
esty,"  said  Major  Brent.  "I  knew  him,  madam;  I 
honored  him;  I  honor  his  memory." 

"He  was  not  only  president  and  founder,"  observed 
Colonel  Hyssop,  "but  he  owned  three-quarters  of  the 
stock." 

' '  Are  the  shares  valuable  ? ' '  she  asked.  ' '  I  have  them ; 
I  should  be  glad  to  give  them  to  the  club,  Colonel  Hys 
sop — in  his  memory." 

"Good  gad!  madam,"  said  the  Colonel,  "the  shares 
are  worth  five  thousand  apiece!" 

"I  am  the  happier  to  give  them — if  the  club  will  ac 
cept,"  she  said,  flushing,  embarrassed,  fearful  of  posing 
as  a  Lady  Bountiful  before  anybody.  She  added, 
hastily,  "You  must  direct  me  in  the  matter,  Colonel 
Hyssop;  we  can  talk  of  it  later." 

Again  she  looked  up  into  her  husband's  face  over  the 
mantel. 

Her  bull-terrier  came  trotting  into  the  hall,  his  polish 
ed  nails  and  padded  feet  beating  a  patter  across  the 
hard-wood  floor. 

"I  shall  dine  in  my  own  rooms  this  evening,"  she 
said,  smiling  vaguely  at  the  approaching  dog. 

"We  hoped  to  welcome  you  to  the  club  table,"  cried 
the  Major. 

"There  are  only  the  Major  and  myself,"  added  the 
Colonel,  with  courteous  entreaty. 

"And  the  other — the  new  man,"  corrected  the  Major, 
with  a  wry  face. 

"Oh  yes — the  bad  rod.     What's  his  name?" 

36 


A    PILGRIM 

"Langham,"  said  the  Major. 

The  English  maid  came  down  to  conduct  her  mis 
tress  to  her  rooms;  the  two  gentlemen  bowed  as  their 
build  permitted ;  the  bull-terrier  trotted  behind  his  mis 
tress  up  the  polished  stairs.  Presently  a  door  closed 
above. 

"Devilish  fine  woman,"  said  Major  Brent. 

Colonel  Hyssop  went  to  a  mirror  and  examined  him 
self  with  close  attention. 

"Good  gad!"  he  said,  irritably,  "how  thin  my  hair 
is!" 

"Thin!"  said  Major  Brent,  with  an  unpleasant  laugh; 
"thin  as  the  hair  on  a  Mexican  poodle." 

"You  infernal  ass!"  hissed  the  Colonel,  and  waddled 
off  to  dress  for  dinner.  At  the  door  he  paused.  "  Bet 
ter  have  no  hair  than  a  complexion  like  a  violet!" 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  Major. 

The  Colonel  slammed  the  door. 

Up-stairs  the  bull-terrier  lay  on  a  rug  watching  his 
mistress  with  tireless  eyes.  The  maid  brought  tea, 
bread  and  butter,  and  trout  fried  crisp,  for  her  mistress 
desired  nothing  else. 

Left  alone,  she  leaned  back,  sipping  her  tea,  listening 
to  the  million  tiny  voices  of  the  night.  The  stillness 
of  the  country  made  her  nervous  after  the  clatter  of 
town.  Nervous?  Was  it  the  tranquil  stillness  of  the 
night  outside  that  stirred  that  growing  apprehension  in 
her  breast  till,  of  a  sudden,  her  heart  began  a  deadened 
throbbing  ? 

Langham  here  ?  What  was  he  doing  here  ?  He  must 
have  arrived  this  morning.  So  that  was  where  he  was 
going  when  he  said  he  was  going  north! 

37 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

After  all,  in  what  did  it  concern  her?  She  had  not 
run  away  from  town  to  avoid  him,  .  .  .  indeed  not,  .  .  . 
her  pilgrimage  was  her  own  affair.  And  Langham 
would  very  quickly  divine  her  pious  impulse  in  coming 
here.  .  .  .  And  he  would  doubtless  respect  her  for  it.  ... 
Perhaps  have  the  subtle  tact  to  pack  up  his  traps  and 
leave.  .  .  .  But  probably  not.  .  .  .  She  knew  a  little  about 
Langham,  ...  an  obstinate  and  typical  man,  .  .  . 
doubtless  selfish  to  the  core,  .  .  .  cheerfully,  naively 
selfish.  .  .  . 

She  raised  her  troubled  eyes.  Over  the  door  was 
printed  in  gilt  letters: 

THE  PRESIDENT'S  SUITE. 

Tears  filled  her  eyes;  truly  they  were  kindly  and 
thoughtful,  these  old  friends  of  her  husband. 

And  all  night  long  she  slept  in  the  room  of  her  late 
husband,  the  president  of  the  Sagamore  Angling  Club, 
and  dreamed  till  daybreak  of  ...  Langham. 


V 

Langham,  clad  in  tweeds  from  head  to  foot,  sat  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed. 

He  had  been  sitting  there  since  daybreak,  and  the 
expression  on  his  ornamental  face  had  varied  between 
the  blank  and  the  idiotic.  That  the  only  woman  in 
the  world  had  miraculously  appeared  at  Sagamore 
Lodge  he  had  heard  from  Colonel  Hyssop  and  Major 
Brent  at  dinner  the  evening  before. 

That  she  already  knew  of  his  presence  there  he  could 

38 


A    PILGRIM 

not  doubt.     That  she  did  not  desire  his  presence  he 
was  fearsomely  persuaded. 

Clearly  he  must  go — not  at  once,  of  course,  to  leave 
behind  him  a  possibility  for  gossip  at  his  abrupt  depart 
ure.  From  the  tongues  of  infants  and  well-fed  club 
men,  good  Lord  deliver  us! 

He  must  go.     Meanwhile  he  could  easily  avoid  her. 

And  as  he  sat  there,  savoring  all  the  pent-up  bitterness 
poured  out  for  him  by  destiny,  there  came  a  patter  of 
padded  feet  in  the  hallway,  the  scrape  of  nails,  a  sniff 
at  the  door -sill,  a  whine,  a  frantic  scratching.  He 
leaned  forward  and  opened  the  door.  His  Highness 
landed  on  the  bed  with  one  hysterical  yelp  and  fell  upon 
Langham,  paw  and  muzzle. 

When  their  affection  had  been  temporarily  satiated, 
the  dog  lay  down  on  the  bed,  eyes  riveted  on  his  late 
master,  and  the  man  went  over  to  his  desk,  drew  a 
sheet  of  club  paper  towards  him,  found  a  pen,  and  wrote: 

"Of  course  it  is  an  unhappy  coincidence,  and  I  will 
go  when  I  can  do  so  decently  —  to-morrow  morning. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  be  away  all  day  fishing  the  West 
Branch,  and  shall  return  too  late  to  dine  at  the  club 
table. 

"I  wish  you  a  happy  sojourn  here — " 

This  he  reread  and  scratched  out. 

"I  am  glad  you  kept  His  Highness." 

This  he  also  scratched  out. 

After  a  while  he  signed  his  name  to  the  note,  sealed  it, 
and  stepped  into  the  hallway. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  passage  the  door  of  her 
room  was  ajar;  a  sunlit-scarlet  curtain  hung  inside. 

"Come  here!"  said  Langham  to  the  dog. 

39 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

His  Highness  came  with  a  single  leap. 

"Take  it  to  ...  her,"  said  the  man,  under  his  breath. 
Then  he  turned  sharply,  picked  up  rod  and  creel,  and 
descended  the  stairs. 

Meanwhile  His  Highness  entered  his  mistress's  cham 
ber,  with  a  polite  scratch  as  a  "by  your  leave!"  and 
trotted  up  to  her,  holding  out  the  note  in  his  pink  mouth. 

She  looked  at  the  dog  in  astonishment.  Then  the 
handwriting  on  the  envelope  caught  her  eye. 

As  she  did  not  offer  to  touch  the  missive,  His  High 
ness  presently  sat  down  and  crowded  up  against  her 
knees.  Then  he  laid  the  letter  in  her  lap. 

Her  expression  became  inscrutable  as  she  picked  up 
the  letter;  while  she  was  reading  it  there  was  color  in 
her  cheeks;  after  she  had  read  it  there  was  less. 

"I  see  no  necessity,"  she  said  to  His  Highness — "I 
see  no  necessity  for  his  going.  I  think  I  ought  to  tell 
him  so.  ...  He  overestimates  the  importance  of  a  mat 
ter  which  does  not  concern  him.  ...  He  is  sublimely  self- 
conscious,  ...  a  typical  man.  And  if  he  presumes  to 
believe  that  the  hazard  of  our  encounter  is  of  the  slight 
est  moment  ...  to  me  .  .  . 

The  dog  dropped  his  head  in  her  lap. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  that!"  she  said,  almost 
sharply,  but  there  was  a  dry  catch  in  her  throat  when 
she  spoke,  and  she  laid  one  fair  hand  on  the  head  of 
His  Highness. 

A  few  moments  later  she  went  down-stairs  to  the 
great  hall,  where  she  found  Colonel  Hyssop  and  Major 
Brent  just  finishing  their  morning  cocktails. 

When  they  could  at  last  comprehend  that  she  never 
began  her  breakfast  with  a  cocktail,  they  conducted  her 

40 


A    PILGRIM 

solemnly  to  the  breakfast-room,  seated  her  with  em- 
pressement,  and  the  coffee  was  served. 

It  was  a  delicious,  old-fashioned,  country  breakfast — 
crisp  trout,  bacon,  eggs,  and  mounds  of  fragrant  flap 
jacks. 

"Langham's  gone  off  to  the  West  Branch;  left  duty's 
compliments  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  for  you,"  ob 
served  the  Colonel,  testing  his  coffee  with  an  air. 

His  Highness,  who  had  sniffed  the  bacon,  got  up  on 
a  chair  where  he  could  sit  and  view  the  table.  Moisture 
gathered  on  his  jet-black  nose;  he  licked  his  jowl. 

"You  poor  darling!"  cried  his  mistress,  rising  im 
pulsively,  with  her  plate  in  her  hand.  She  set  the 
plate  on  the  floor.  It  was  cleaned  with  a  snap,  then 
carefully  polished. 

"You  are  fond  of  your  dog,  madam,"  said  the  Major, 
much  interested. 

"He's  a  fine  one,"  added  the  Colonel.  "Gad!  I  took 
him  for  Langham's  champion  at  first." 

She  bent  her  head  over  the  dog's  plate. 

Later  she  walked  to  the  porch,  followed  by  His  High 
ness. 

A  lovely  little  path  invited  them  on — a  path  made 
springy  by  trodden  leaves ;  and  the  dog  and  his  mistress 
strolled  forth  among  clumps  of  hazel  and  silver-birches, 
past  ranks  of  alders  and  Indian-willows,  on  across  log 
bridges  spanning  tiny  threads  of  streams  which  poured 
into  the  stony  river. 

The  unceasing  chorus  of  the  birds  freshened  like  wind 
in  her  ears.  Spring  echoes  sounded  from  blue  distances; 
the  solemn  congress  of  the  forest  trees  in  session  mur 
mured  of  summers  past  and  summers  to  come. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

How  could  her  soul  sink  in  the  presence  of  the  young 
world's  uplifting? 

Her  dog  came  back  and  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 
With  a  cry,  which  was  half  laughter,  she  raced  with 
'him  along  the  path,  scattering  the  wild  birds  into  flight 
from  bush  and  thicket. 

Breathless,  rosy,  she  halted  at  the  river's  shallow 
edge. 

Flung  full  length  on  the  grass,  she  dipped  her  white 
fingers  in  the  river,  and  dropped  wind-flowers  on  the 
ripples  to  watch  them  dance  away. 

She  listened  to  the  world  around  her;  it  had  much  to 
say  to  her  if  she  would  only  believe  it.  But  she  forced 
her  mind  back  to  her  husband  and  lay  brooding. 

An  old  man  in  leggings  and  corduroys  came  stumping 
along  the  path;  His  Highness  heard  him  coming  and 
turned  his  keen  head.  Then  he  went  and  stood  in  front 
of  his  mistress,  calm,  inquisitive,  dangerous. 

"Mornin',  miss,"  said  the  keeper;  "I  guess  you  must 
be  one  of  our  folks." 

"I  am  staying  at  the  club-house,"  she  said,  smiling, 
and  sitting  up  on  the  grass. 

"I'm  old  Peter,  one  o'  the  guards,"  he  said.  "Fine 
mornin',  miss,  but  a  leetle  bright  for  the  fish — though 
I  ain't  denyin'  that  a  small  dark  fly'd  raise  'em;  no'm. 
If  I  was  sot  on  ketchin'  a  mess  o'  fish,  I  guess  a  hare's- 
ear  would  do  the  business;  yes'm.  I  jest  passed  Mr. 
Langham  down  to  the  forks,  and  I  seed  he  was  a«-chuck- 
in'  a  hare's-ear;  an'  he  riz  'em,  too;  yes'm." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  a  keeper  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"How  long,  'm?  Waal,  I  was  the  fustest  guard  they 
had;  yes'm.  I  live  down  here  a  piece.  They  bought 

42 


A    PILGRIM 

my  water  rights;  yes'm.  An'  they  give  me  the  job. 
The  president  he  sez  to  me,  '  Peter,'  he  sez,  jest  like  that 
— '  Peter,  you  was  raised  here ;  you  know  all  them  brooks 
an'  rivers  like  a  mink;  you  stay  right  here  an'  watch 
'em,  an'  I'll  do  the  squar'  by  ye,'  he  sez,  jest  like  that. 
An'  he  done  it;  yes'm." 

"So  you  knew  the  president,  then?"  she  asked,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Knew  him? — him?     Yes'm." 

The  old  man  laughed  a  hollow,  toothless  laugh,  and 
squinted  out  across  the  dazzling  river. 

"Knew  him  twenty  year,  I  did.  A  good  man,  and 
fair  at  that.  Why,  I've  seen  him  a-settin'  jest  where 
you're  settin'  this  minute — seen  him  a  hundred  times 
a-settin'  there." 

"Fishing?"  she  said,  in  an  awed  voice. 

"Sometimes.  Sometimes  he  was  a-drinkin'  out  o' 
that  silver  pocket-pistol  o'  his'n.  He  got  drunk  a  lot 
up  here;  but  he  didn't  drink  alone;  no'm.  There  wasn't 
a  stingy  hair  in  his  head;  he — " 

"Do  you  mean  the  president?"  she  said,  incredulous 
ly,  almost  angrily. 

"Him?  Yes'm.  Him  an'  Colonel  Hyssop  an'  Major 
Brent;  they  had  good  times  in  them  days." 

"You  knew  the  president  before  his  marriage,"  she 
observed,  coldly. 

"Him?  He  wasn't  never  married,  miss!"  said  the 
old  man,  scornfully. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  with  a  troubled  smile. 

"Sure?  Yes'm.  Why,  the  last  time  he  was  up  here, 
three  year  come  July  Fourth,  I  seen  him  a-kissin'  an' 
a-huggin'  of  old  man  Dawson's  darter — 

43 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

She  was  on  her  feet  in  a  flash.  The  old  man  stood 
there  smiling  his  senile  smile  and  squinting  out  across 
the  water,  absorbed  in  his  garrulous  reminiscence. 

"  Yes'm;  all  the  folks  down  to  the  village  was  fond  o' 
the  president,  he  was  that  jolly  and  free,  an'  no  stuck- 
up  city  airs;  no'm;  jest  free  and  easy,  an'  a-sparkin' 
the  gals  with  the  best  o'  them — " 

The  old  man  laughed  and  crossed  his  arms  under  the 
barrel  of  his  shot-gun. 

"Folks  said  he  might  o'  married  old  man  Dawson's 
darter  if  he'd  lived.  I  dun'no'.  I  guess  it  was  all  fun. 
But  I  hear  the  gal  took  on  awful  when  they  told  her  he 
was  dead;  yes'm." 

VI 

Towards  evening  Langham  waded  across  the  river, 
drew  in  his  dripping  line,  put  up  his  rod,  and  counted 
and  weighed  his  fish.  Then,  lighting  a  pipe,  he  reslung 
the  heavy  creel  across  his  back  and  started  up  the 
darkening  path.  From  his  dripping  tweeds  the  water 
oozed;  his  shoes  wheezed  and  slopped  at  every  step; 
he  was  tired,  soaked,  successful  —  but  happy?  Pos 
sibly. 

It  was  dark  when  the  lighted  windows  of  the  lodge 
twinkled  across  the  hill;  he  struck  out  over  the 
meadow,  head  bent,  smoking  furiously. 

On  the  steps  of  the  club-house  Colonel  Hyssop  and 
Major  Brent  greeted  him  with  the  affected  heartiness 
of  men  who  disliked  his  angling  methods;  the  steward 
brought  out  a  pan;  the  fish  were  uncreeled,  reweighed, 
measured,  and  entered  on  the  club  book. 


A    PILGRIM 

"Finest  creel  this  year,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  ad 
miringly. 

The  Major  grew  purple;  the  Colonel  carefully  remeas- 
ured  the  largest  fish. 

"Twenty-one  inches,  steward!"  he  said.  "Wasn't 
my  big  fish  of  last  Thursday  twenty -two?" 

"Nineteen,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  promptly. 

"Then  it  shrank  like  the  devil!"  said  the  Colonel. 
"By  gad!  it  must  have  shrunk  in  the  creel!" 

But  Langham  was  in  no  mood  to  savor  his  triumph. 
He  climbed  the  stairs  wearily,  leaving  little  puddles  of 
water  on  each  step,  slopped  down  the  hallway,  entered 
his  room,  and  sank  into  a  chair,  too  weary,  too  sad  even 
to  think. 

Presently  he  lighted  his  lamp.  He  dressed  with  his 
usual  attention  to  detail,  and  touched  the  electric  but 
ton  above  his  bed. 

"I'm  going  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said  to  the  ser 
vant  who  came;  "return  in  an  hour  and  pack  my 
traps." 

Langham  sat  down.  He  had  no  inclination  for  din 
ner.  With  his  chin  propped  on  his  clinched  hands  he 
sat  there  thinking.  A  sound  fell  on  his  ear,  the  closing 
of  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  the  padded  pattering  of 
a  dog's  feet,  a  scratching,  a  whine. 

He  opened  his  door;  the  bull-terrier  trotted  in  and 
stood  before  him  in  silence.  His  Highness  held  in  his 
mouth  a  letter. 

Langham  took  the  note  with  hands  that  shook.  He 
could  scarcely  steady  them  to  open  the  envelope;  he 
could  scarcely  see  to  read  the  line: 

"Why  are  you  going  away?" 

45 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  rose,  made  his  way  to  his  desk  like  a  blind  man, 
and  wrote, 

"Because  I  love  you." 

His  Highness  bore  the  missive  away. 

For  an  hour  he  sat  there  in  the  lamp-lit  room.  The 
servant  came  to  pack  up  for  him,  but  he  sent  the  man 
back,  saying  that  he  might  change  his  mind.  Then  he 
resumed  his  waiting,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  At 
last,  when  he  could  endure  the  silence  no  longer,  he 
rose  and  walked  the  floor,  backward,  forward,  pausing 
breathless  to  listen  for  the  patter  of  the  dog's  feet  in  the 
hall.  But  no  sound  came;  he  stole  to  the  door  and  lis 
tened,  then  stepped  into  the  hall.  The  light  still  burn 
ed  in  her  room,  streaming  out  through  the  transom. 

She  would  never  send  another  message  to  him  by  His 
Highness;  he  understood  that  now.  How  he  cursed 
himself  for  his  momentary  delusion!  how  he  scorned 
himself  for  reading  anything  but  friendly  kindness  in 
her  message!  how  he  burned  with  self -contempt  for  his 
raw,  brutal  reply,  crude  as  the  blurted  offer  of  a  yokel! 

That  settled  the  matter.  If  he  had  any  decency  left, 
he  must  never  offend  her  eyes  again.  How  could  he 
have  hoped?  How  could  he  have  done  it?  Here,  too! 
—here  in  this  place  so  sanctified  to  her  by  associations 
— here,  whither  she  had  come  upon  her  pious  pilgrim 
age — here,  where  at  least  he  might  have  left  her  to  her 
dead! 

Suddenly,  as  he  stood  there,  her  door  opened.  She 
saw  him  standing  there.  For  a  full  minute  they  faced 
each  other.  Presently  His  Highness  emerged  from  be 
hind  his  mistress  and  trotted  out  into  the  hall. 

Behind  His  Highness  came  his  mistress,  slowly,  more 

46 


A    PILGRIM 

slowly.  The  dog  carefully  held  a  letter  between  his 
teeth,  and  when  Langham  saw  it  he  sprang  forward 
eagerly. 

"No,  no!"  she  said.  "I  did  not  mean — I  cannot — I 
cannot —  Give  me  back  the  letter!" 

He  had  the  letter  in  his  hand;  her  hand  fell  over  it; 
the  color  surged  into  her  face  and  neck.  The  letter 
dropped  from  her  yielding  hand;  the  thrill  from  their 
interlocked  fingers  made  her  faint,  and  she  swayed  for 
ward  towards  him,  so  close  that  their  lips  touched,  then 
clung,  crushed  in  their  first  kiss.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  His  Highness  picked  up  the  letter  and 
stood  politely  waiting. 


THE    SHINING    BAND 


THE    SHINING    BAND 


BEFORE  the  members  of  the  Sagamore  Fish  and 
Game  Association  had  erected  their  handsome 
club-house,  and  before  they  had  begun  to  purchase 
those  thousands  of  acres  of  forest,  mountain,  and 
stream  which  now  belonged  to  them,  a  speculative 
lumberman  with  no  capital,  named  O'Hara,  built  the 
white  house  across  the  river  on  a  few  acres  of  inher 
ited  property,  settled  himself  comfortably  with  his 
wife  and  child,  and  prepared  to  acquire  all  the  timber 
in  sight  at  a  few  dollars  an  acre  ...  on  credit.  For 
thus,  thought  he,  is  the  beginning  of  all  millionaires. 

So  certain  was  O'Hara  of  ultimately  cornering  the 
standing  timber  that  he  took  his  time  about  it,  never 
dreaming  that  a  rival  might  disturb  him  in  the  wilder 
ness  of  Sagamore  County. 

He  began  in  the  woodland  which  he  had  inherited, 
which  ran  for  a  mile  on  either  side  of  the  river.  This 
he  leisurely  cut,  hired  a  few  river  drivers,  ran  a  few  logs 
to  Foxville,  and  made  money. 

Now  he  was  ready  to  extend  business  on  a  greater 
scale;  but  when  he  came  to  open  negotiations  with  the 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

score  or  more  of  landholders,  he  found  himself  in  the 
alarming  position  of  a  bidder  against  an  unknown  but 
clever  rival,  who  watched,  waited,  and  quietly  fore 
stalled  his  every  movement. 

It  took  a  long  time  for  O'Hara  to  discover  that  he 
was  fighting  a  combination  of  fifteen  wealthy  gentlemen 
from  New  York.  Finally,  when  the  Sagamore  Club, 
limited  to  fifteen,  had  completed  operations,  O'Hara 
suddenly  perceived  that  he  was  bottled  up  in  the  strip 
of  worthless  land  which  he  had  inherited,  surrounded 
by  thousands  of  acres  of  preserved  property — outwitted, 
powerless,  completely  hemmed  in.  And  that,  too,  with 
the  best  log-driving  water  betwixt  Foxville  and  Canada 
washing  the  very  door-sill  of  his  own  home. 

At  first  he  naturally  offered  to  sell,  but  the  club's 
small  offer  enraged  him,  and  he  swore  that  he  would 
never  sell  them  an  inch  of  his  land.  He  watched  the 
new  club-house  which  was  slowly  taking  shape  under 
the  trowels  of  masons  and  the  mallets  of  carpenters; 
and  his  wrath  grew  as  grew  the  house. 

The  man's  nature  began  to  change;  an  inextinguish 
able  hatred  for  these  people  took  possession  of  him,  be 
came  his  mania,  his  existence. 

His  wife  died;  he  sent  his  child  to  a  convent  school 
in  Canada  and  remained  to  watch.  He  did  the  club 
what  damage  he  could,  posting  his  property,  and  as 
much  of  the  river  as  he  controlled.  But  he  could  not 
legally  prevent  fishermen  from  wading  the  stream  and 
fishing;  so  he  filled  the  waters  with  sawdust,  logs,  barbed- 
wire,  brambles,  and  brush,  choking  it  so  that  no  living 
creature,  except  perhaps  a  mink,  could  catch  a  fish  in  it. 

The  club  protested,  and  then  offered  to  buy  the  land 

52 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

on  O'Hara's  own  terms.  O'Hara  cursed  them  and 
built  a  dam  without  a  fish  way,  and  sat  beside  it  nights 
with  a  loaded  shot-gun. 

He  still  had  a  few  dollars  left;  he  wanted  millions  to 
crush  these  rich  men  who  had  come  here  to  mock  him 
and  take  the  bread  out  of  his  mouth  for  their  summer's 
sport. 

He  had  a  shrewd  young  friend  in  New  York,  named 
Amasa  Munn.  Through  this  man,  O'Hara  began  to 
speculate  in  every  wild-cat  scheme  that  squalled  aloud 
for  public  support ;  and  between  Munn  and  the  wild-cats 
his  little  fortune  spread  its  wings  of  gold  and  soared 
away,  leaving  him  a  wreck  on  his  wrecked  land. 

But  he  could  still  find  strength  to  watch  the  spite 
dam  with  his  shot-gun.  One  day  a  better  scheme  came 
into  his  unbalanced  brain;  he  broke  the  dam  and  sent 
for  Munn.  Between  them  they  laid  a  plan  to  ruin  for 
ever  the  trout-fishing  in  the  Sagamore;  and  Munn,  taking 
the  last  of  O'Hara's  money  as  a  bribe,  actually  secured 
several  barrels  full  of  live  pickerel,  and  shipped  them  to 
the  nearest  station  on  the  Sagamore  and  Inland  Rail 
way. 

But  here  the  club  watchers  caught  Munn,  and  held 
him  and  his  fish  for  the  game-wardens.  The  penalty 
for  introducing  trout-destroying  pickerel  into  waters  in 
habited  by  trout  was  a  heavy  fine.  Munn  was  guilty 
only  in  intent,  but  the  club  keepers  swore  falsely,  and 
Peyster  Sprowl,  a  lawyer  and  also  the  new  president  of 
the  Sagamore  Club,  pushed  the  case;  and  Munn  went 
to  jail,  having  no  money  left  to  purge  his  sentence. 

O'Hara,  wild  with  rage,  wrote,  threatening  Sprowl. 

Then  Sprowl  did  a  vindictive  and  therefore  foolish 

S3 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

thing:  he  swore  out  a  warrant  for  O'Hara's  arrest,  charg 
ing  him  with  blackmail. 

The  case  was  tried  in  Foxville,  and  O'Hara  was  ac 
quitted.  But  a  chance  word  or  two  during  the  testi 
mony  frightened  the  club  and  gave  O'Hara  the  oppor 
tunity  of  his  life.  He  went  to  New  York  and  scraped  up 
enough  money  for  his  purpose,  which  was  to  search  the 
titles  of  the  lands  controlled  by  the  Sagamore  Club. 

He  worked  secretly,  grubbing,  saving,  starving;  he 
ferreted  out  the  original  grants  covering  nine-tenths  of 
Sagamore  County;  he  disinterred  the  O'Hara  patent  of 
1760;  and  then  he  began  to  understand  that  his  title 
to  the  entire  Sagamore  Club  property  was  worth  the 
services,  on  spec.,  of  any  first-class  Centre  Street  shyster. 

The  club  got  wind  of  this  and  appointed  PeysterSprowl, 
in  his  capacity  of  lawyer  and  president  of  the  club,  to 
find  out  how  much  of  a  claim  O'Hara  really  had.  The 
club  also  placed  the  emergency  fund  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  at  Sprowl's  command  with  carte-blanche 
orders  to  arrest  a  suit  and  satisfy  any  claim  that  could 
not  be  beaten  by  money  and  talent. 

Now  it  took  Sprowl  a  very  short  time  to  discover  that 
O'Hara's  claim  was  probably  valid  enough  to  oust  the 
club  from  three-quarters  of  its  present  holdings. 

He  tried  to  see  O'Hara,  but  the  lumberman  refused 
to  be  interviewed,  and  promptly  began  proceedings. 
He  also  made  his  will;  for  he  was  a  sick  man.  Then  he 
became  a  sicker  man,  and  suspended  proceedings  and 
sent  for  his  little  daughter. 

Before  she  arrived  he  called  Munn  in,  gave  him  a 
packet  of  papers,  and  made  him  burn  them  before  his 
eyes. 

54 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

"They're  the  papers  in  my  case,"  he  said.  "I'm 
dying;  I've  fought  too  hard.  I  don't  want  my  child  to 
fight  when  I'm  dead.  And  there's  nothing  in  my  claim, 
anyway."  This  was  a  lie,  and  Munn  suspected  it. 

When  the  child,  Eileen,  arrived,  O'Hara  was  nearly 
dead,  but  he  gathered  sufficient  strength  to  shove  a 
locked  steel  box  towards  his  daughter  and  tell  her  to 
keep  it  from  Munn,  and  keep  it  locked  until  she  found 
an  honest  man  in  the  world. 

The  next  morning  O'Hara  appeared  to  be  much  bet 
ter.  His  friend  Munn  came  to  see  him;  also  came 
Peyster  Sprowl  in  some  alarm,  on  the  matter  of  the 
proceedings  threatened.  But  O'Hara  turned  his  back 
on  them  both  and  calmly  closed  his  eyes  and  ears  to 
their  presence. 

Munn  went  out  of  the  room,  but  laid  his  large,  thin 
ear  against  the  door.  Sprowl  worried  O'Hara  for  an 
hour,  but,  getting  no  reply  from  the  man  in  the  bed, 
withdrew  at  last  with  considerable  violence. 

O'Hara,  however,  had  fooled  them  both:  he  had  been 
dead  all  the  while. 

The  day  after  the  funeral,  Sprowl  came  back  to  look 
for  O'Hara's  daughter;  and  as  he  peeped  into  the  door 
of  the  squalid  flat  he  saw  a  thin,  yellow-eyed  young  man, 
with  a  bony  face,  all  furry  in  promise  of  future  whiskers, 
rummaging  through  O'Hara's  effects.  This  young  gen 
tleman  was  Munn. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  disordered  room  sat  the  child, 
Eileen,  a  white,  shadowy  elf  of  six,  reading  in  the  Book 
of  Common  Prayer. 

Sprowl  entered  the  room;  Munn  looked  up,  then  cool 
ly  continued  to  rummage. 

55 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Sprowl  first  addressed  himself  to  the  child,  in  a  heavy, 
patronizing  voice: 

"It's  too  dark  to  read  there  in  that  corner,  young  one. 
Take  your  book  out  into  the  hall." 

"I  can  see  better  to  read  in  the  dark,"  said  the  child, 
lifting  her  great,  dark-blue  eyes. 

"Go  out  into  the  hall,"  said  Sprowl,  sharply. 

The  child  shrank  back,  and  went,  taking  her  little 
jacket  in  one  hand,  her  battered  travelling-satchel  in 
the  other. 

If  the  two  men  could  have  known  that  the  steel  box 
was  in  that  satchel  this  story  might  never  have  been  told. 
But  it  never  entered  their  heads  that  the  pallid  little 
waif  had  sense  enough  to  conceal  a  button  to  her  own 
profit. 

"Munn,"  said  Sprowl,  lighting  a  cigar,  "what  is  there 
in  this  business?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  I'm  done,"  observed  Munn,  coolly. 

Sprowl  sat  down  on  the  bed  where  O'Hara  had  died, 
cocked  the  cigar  up  in  his  mouth,  and  blew  smoke, 
musingly,  at  the  ceiling. 

Munn  found  nothing — not  a  scrap  of  paper,  not  a 
line.  This  staggered  him,  but  he  did  not  intend  that 
Sprowl  should  know  it. 

"Found  what  you  want?"  asked  Sprowl,  comfort 
ably. 

"Yes,"  replied  Munn. 

"Belong  to  the  kid?" 

"Yes;  I'm  her  guardian." 

The  men  measured  each  other  in  silence  for  a  minute. 

"What  will  you  take  to  keep  quiet?"  asked  Sprowl. 
"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars." 

56 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

"I  want  five  thousand,"  said  Munn,  firmly. 

"I'll  double  it  for  the  papers,"  said  Sprowl. 

Munn  waited.  "There's  not  a  paper  left,"  he  said; 
"O'Hara  made  me  burn  'em." 

"Twenty  thousand  for  the  papers,"  said  Sprowl, 
calmly. 

"My  God,  Mr.  Sprowl!"  growled  Munn,  white  and 
sweating  with  anguish.  "I'd  give  them  to  you  for  half 
that  if  I  had  them.  Can't  you  believe  me?  I  saw 
O'Hara  burn  them." 

"What  were  you  rummaging  for,  ^hen?"  demanded 
Sprowl. 

"For  anything — to  get  a  hold  on  you,"  said  Munn, 
sullenly. 

"Blackmail?" 

Munn  was  silent. 

"Oh,"  said  Sprowl,  lazily.  "I  think  I'll  be  going, 
then — " 

Munn  barred  his  exit,  choking  with  anger. 

"You  give  me  five  thousand  dollars,  or  I'll  stir  'em 
up  to  look  into  your  titles!"  he  snarled. 

Sprowl  regarded  him  with  contempt;  then  another 
idea  struck  him,  an  idea  that  turned  his  fat  face  first  to 
ashes,  then  to  fire. 

A  month  later  Sprowl  returned  to  the  Sagamore  Club, 
triumphant,  good-humored,  and  exceedingly  contented. 
But  he  had,  he  explained,  only  succeeded  in  saving  the 
club  at  the  cost  of  the  entire  emergency  fund — one  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars — which,  after  all,  was  a  drop  in 
the  bucket  to  the  remaining  fourteen  members. 

The  victory  would  have  been  complete  if  Sprowl  had 
also  been  able  to  purchase  the  square  mile  of  land  lately 

57 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

occupied  by  O'Hara.  But  this  belonged  to  O'Hara's 
daughter,  and  the  child  flatly  refused  to  part  with  it. 

"You'll  have  to  wait  for  the  little  slut  to  change  her 
mind,"  observed  Munn  to  Sprowl.  And,  as  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do,  Sprowl  and  the  club  waited. 

Trouble  appeared  to  be  over  for  the  Sagamore  Club. 
Munn  disappeared;  the  daughter  was  not  to  be  found; 
the  long-coveted  land  remained  tenantless. 

Of  course,  the  Sagamore  Club  encountered  the  petty 
difficulties  and  annoyances  to  which  similar  clubs  are 
sooner  or  later  subjected;  disputes  with  neighboring 
land-owners  were  gradually  adjusted;  troubles  arising 
from  poachers,  dishonest  keepers,  and  night  guards  had 
been,  and  continued  to  be,  settled  without  harshness 
or  rancor;  minks,  otters,  herons,  kingfishers,  and  other 
undesirable  intruders  were  kept  within  limits  by  the 
guns  of  the  watchers,  although  by  no  means  extermi 
nated;  and  the  wealthy  club  was  steadily  but  unosten 
tatiously  making  vast  additions  to  its  splendid  tracts 
of  forest,  hill,  and  river  land. 

After  a  decent  interval  the  Sagamore  Club  made 
cautious  inquiries  concerning  the  property  of  the  late 
O'Hara,  only  to  learn  that  the  land  had  been  claimed 
by  Munn,  and  that  taxes  were  paid  on  it  by  that  in 
dividual. 

For  fifteen  years  the  O'Hara  house  remained  tenant- 
less;  anglers  from  the  club  fished  freely  through  the 
mile  of  river ;  the  name  of  Munn  had  been  forgotten  save 
by  the  club's  treasurer,  secretary,  and  president,  Pey- 
ster  Sprowl. 

However,  the  members  of  the  club  never  forgot  that 
in  the  centre  of  their  magnificent  domain  lay  a  square 

58 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

mile  which  did  not  belong  to  them ;  and  they  longed  to 
possess  it  as  better  people  than  they  have  coveted  treas 
ures  not  laid  up  on  earth. 

The  relations  existing  between  the  members  of  the 
Sagamore  Club  continued  harmonious  in  as  far  as  their 
social  intercourse  and  the  general  acquisitive  policy  of 
the  club  was  concerned. 

There  existed,  of  course,  that  tacit  mutual  derision 
based  upon  individual  sporting  methods,  individual 
preferences,  obstinate  theories  concerning  the  choice  of 
rods,  reels,  lines,  and  the  killing  properties  of  favorite 
trout-flies. 

Major  Brent  and  Colonel  Hyssop  continued  to  nag 
and  sneer  at  each  other  all  day  long,  yet  they  remained 
as  mutually  dependent  upon  each  other  as  David  and 
Jonathan.  For  thirty  years  the  old  gentlemen  had 
angled  in  company,  and  gathered  inspiration  out  of 
the  same  books,  the  same  surroundings,  the  same 
flask. 

They  were  the  only  guests  at  the  club-house  that  wet 
May  in  1900,  although  Peyster  Sprowl  was  expected  in 
June,  and  young  Dr.  Lansing  had  wired  that  he  might 
arrive  any  day. 

An  evening  rain-storm  was  drenching  the  leaded  panes 
in  the  smoking-room ;  Colonel  Hyssop  drummed  accom 
paniment  on  the  windows  and  smoked  sulkily,  looking 
across  the  river  towards  the  O'Hara  house,  just  visible 
through  the  pelting  downpour. 

"Irritates  me  every  time  I  see  it,"  he  said. 

"Some  day,"  observed  Major  Brent,  comfortably, 
"I'm  going  to  astonish  you  all." 

"How?"  demanded  the  Colonel,  tersely. 

59    ' 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

The  Major  examined  the  end  of  his  cigarette  with  a 
cunning  smile. 

"It  isn't  for  sale,  is  it?"  asked  the  Colonel.  "Don't 
try  to  be  mysterious;  it  irritates  me." 

Major  Brent  savored  his  cigarette  leisurely. 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?"  he  inquired. 

The  Colonel  intimated  profanely  that  he  could. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Major,  in  calm  triumph, 
"there's  a  tax  sale  on  to-morrow  at  Foxville." 

"Not  the  O'Hara  place?"  asked  the  Colonel,  excited. 

The  Major  winked.  "I'll  fix  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
patronizing  squint  at  his  empty  glass. 

But  he  did  not  "fix  it"  exactly  as  he  intended;  the 
taxes  on  the  O'Hara  place  were  being  paid  at  that  very 
moment. 

He  found  it  out  next  day,  when  he  drove  over  to 
Foxville;  he  also  learned  that  the  Rev.  Amasa  Munn, 
Prophet  of  the  Shining  Band  Community,  had  paid  the 
taxes  and  was  preparing  to  quit  Maine  and  re-establish 
his  colony  of  fanatics  on  the  O'Hara  land,  in  the  very 
centre  and  heart  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  rigidly 
exclusive  country  club  in  America. 

That  night  the  frightened  Major  telegraphed  to  Munn- 
ville,  Maine,  an  offer  to  buy  the  O'Hara  place  at  double 
its  real  value.  The  business-like  message  ended:  "Wire 
reply  at  my  expense." 

The  next  morning  an  incoherent  reply  came  by  wire, 
at  the  Major's  expense,  refusing  to  sell,  and  quoting 
several  passages  of  Scripture  at  Western  Union  rates 
per  word. 

The  operator  at  the  station  counted  the  words 
carefully,  and  collected  eight  dollars  and  fourteen 

60 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

cents    from  the   Major,  whose   fury  deprived   him  of 
speech. 

Colonel  Hyssop  awaited  his  comrade  at  the  club 
house,  nervously  pacing  the  long  veranda,  gnawing  his 
cigar.  "Hello!"  he  called  out,  as  Major  Brent  waddled 
up.  "Have  you  bought  the  O'Hara  place  for  us?" 

The  Major  made  no  attempt  to  reply;  he  panted  vio 
lently  at  the  Colonel,  then  began  to  run  about,  taking 
little,  short,  distracted  steps. 

"Made  a  mess  of  it?"  inquired  the  Colonel,  with  a 
badly  concealed  sneer. 

He  eyed  the  Major  in  deepening  displeasure.  "If 
you  get  any  redder  in  the  face  you'll  blow  up,"  he  said, 
coldly;  "and  I  don't  propose  to  have  you  spatter  me." 

"He — he's  an  impudent  swindler!"  hissed  the  Major, 
convulsively. 

The  Colonel  sniffed:  "I  expected  it.  What  of  it? 
After  all,  there's  nobody  on  the  farm  to  annoy  us,  is 
there?" 

"Wait!"  groaned  the  Major — "wait!"  and  he  toddled 
into  the  hall  and  fell  on  a  chair,  beating  space  with  his 
pudgy  hands. 

When  the  Colonel  at  length  learned  the  nature  of  the 
threatened  calamity,  he  utterly  refused  to  credit  it. 

"Rubbish!"  he  said,  calmly — "rubbish!  my  dear  fel 
low;  this  man  Munn  is  holding  out  for  more  money,  d'ye 
see?  Rubbish!  rubbish!  It's  blackmail,  d'ye  see?" 

"Do  you  think  so .'"  faltered  the  Major,  hopefully. 
"  It  isn't  possible  that  they  mean  to  come,  is  it  ?  Fancy 
all  those  fanatics  shouting  about  under  our  windows — " 

"Rubbish!"  said  the  Colonel,  calmly.  "I'll  write  to 
the  fellow  myself." 

61 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

All  through  that  rainy  month  of  May  the  two  old 
cronies  had  the  club-house  to  themselves;  they  slopped 
about  together,  fishing  cheek  by  jowl  as  they  had  fished 
for  thirty  years;  at  night  they  sat  late  over  their  toddy, 
and  disputed  and  bickered  and  wagged  their  fingers  at 
each  other,  and  went  to  bed  with  the  perfect  gravity  of 
gentlemen  who  could  hold  their  own  with  any  toddy 
ever  brewed. 

No  reply  came  to  the  Colonel,  but  that  did  not  dis 
courage  him. 

"They  are  playing  a  waiting  game,"  he  said,  sagely. 
"This  man  Munn  has  bought  the  land  from  O'Hara's 
daughter  for  a  song,  and  he  means  to  bleed  us.  I'll 
write  to  Sprowl;  he'll  fix  things." 

Early  in  June  Dr.  Lansing  and  his  young  kinsman, 
De  Witt  Coursay,  arrived  at  the  club-house.  They, 
also,  were  of  the  opinion  that  Munn's  object  was  to 
squeeze  the  club  by  threats. 

The  second  week  in  June,  Peyster  Sprowl,  Master 
of  Fox-hounds,  Shadowbrook,  appeared  with  his  wife, 
the  celebrated  beauty,  Agatha  Sprowl,  nee  Van  Guilder. 

Sprowl,  now  immensely  large  and  fat,  had  few  cares 
in  life  beyond  an  anxious  apprehension  concerning  the 
durability  of  his  own  digestion.  However,  he  was  still 
able  to  make  a  midnight  mouthful  of  a  Welsh  rarebit 
on  a  hot  mince-pie,  and  wash  it  down  with  a  quart  of 
champagne,  and  so  the  world  went  very  well  with  him, 
even  if  it  wabbled  a  trifle  for  his.  handsome  wife. 

"She's  lovely  enough,"  said  Colonel  Hyssop,  gallant 
ly,  "to  set  every  star  in  heaven  wabbling."  To  which 
the  bull-necked  Major  assented  with  an  ever-hopeless 
attempt  to  bend  at  the  waistband. 

62 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

Meanwhile  the  Rev.  Amasa  Munn  and  his  flock,  the 
Shining  Band,  arrived  at  Foxville  in  six  farm  wagons, 
singing  "Roll,  Jordan!" 

Of  their  arrival  Sprowl  was  totally  unconscious,  the 
Colonel  having  forgotten  to  inform  him  of  the  threat 
ened  invasion. 

II 

The  members  of  the  Sagamore  Club  heard  the  news 
next  morning  at  a  late  breakfast.  Major  Brent,  who 
had  been  fishing  early  up-stream,  bore  the  news,  and 
delivered  it  in  an  incoherent  bellow. 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  that?"  demanded  Colonel 
Hyssop,  setting  down  his  cocktail  with  unsteady  fin 
gers. 

"Mean?"  roared  the  Major;  "I  mean  that  Munn  and 
a  lot  o'  women  are  sitting  on  the  river-bank  and  singing 
'Home  Again'!" 

The  news  jarred  everybody,  but  the  effect  of  it  upon 
the  president,  Peyster  Sprowl,  appeared  to  be  out  of 
all  proportion  to  its  gravity.  That  gentleman's  face 
was  white  as  death;  and  the  Major  noticed  it. 

"You'll  have  to  rid  us  of  this  mob,"  said  the  Major, 
slowly. 

Sprowl  lifted  his  heavy,  overfed  face  from  his  plate. 
"I'll  attend  to  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  and  swallowed  a 
pint  of  claret. 

"I  think  it  is  amusing,"  said  Agatha  Sprowl,  looking 
across  the  table  at  Coursay. 

"Amusing,  madam!"  burst  out  the  Major.  "They'll 
be  doing  their  laundry  in  our  river  next!" 

63 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Soapsuds  in  my  favorite  pools!"  bawled  the  Colonel. 
"Damme  if  I'll  permit  it!" 

"Sprowl  ought  to  settle  them,"  said  Lansing,  good- 
naturedly.  "It  may  cost  us  a  few  thousands,  but 
Sprowl  will  do  the  work  this  time  as  he  did  it  be 
fore." 

Sprowl  choked  in  his  claret,  turned  a  vivid  beef -color, 
and  wiped  his  chin.  His  appetite  was  ruined.  He 
hoped  the  ruin  would  stop  there. 

"What  harm  will  they  do?"  asked  Coursay,  seriously 
— "beyond  the  soapsuds?" 

"They'll  fish,  they'll  throw  tin  cans  in  the  water, 
they'll  keep  us  awake  with  their  fanatical  powwows — 
confound  it,  haven't  I  seen  that  sort  of  thing?"  said  the 
Major,  passionately.  "Yes,  I  have,  at  nigger  camp- 
meetings!  And  these  people  beat  the  niggers  at  that 
sort  of  thing!" 

"  Leave  'em  to  me,"  repeated  Peyster  Sprowl,  thickly, 
and  began  on  another  chop  from  force  of  habit. 

"About  fifteen  years  ago,"  said  the  Colonel,  "there 
was  some  talk  about  our  title.  You  fixed  that,  didn't 
you,  Sprowl?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sprowl,  with  parched  lips. 

"Of  course,"  muttered  the  Major;  "it  cost  us  a  cool 
hundred  thousand  to  perfect  our  title.  Thank  God  it's 
settled." 

Sprowl's  immense  body  turned  perfectly  cold;  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  glass  and  drained  it.  Then  the 
shrimp-color  returned  to  his  neck  and  ears,  and  deep 
ened  to  scarlet.  When  the  earth  ceased  reeling  before 
his  apoplectic  eyes,  he  looked  around,  furtively.  Again 
the  scene  in  O'Hara's  death-chamber  came  to  him;  the 

64 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

threat  of  Munn,  who  had  got  wind  of  the  true  situation, 
and  the  bribing  of  Munn  to  silence. 

But  the  club  had  given  Sprowl  one  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  to  perfect  its  title ;  and  Sprowl  had  reported 
the  title  perfect,  all  proceedings  ended,  and  the  pay 
ment  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  Amasa  Munn, 
as  guardian  of  the  child  of  O'Hara,  in  full  payment  for 
the  O'Hara  claims  to  the  club  property. 

Sprowl 's  coolness  began  to  return.  If  five  thousand 
dollars  had  stopped  Munn's  mouth  once,  it  might  stop 
it  again.  Besides,  how  could  Munn  know  that  Sprowl 
had  kept  for  his  own  uses  ninety-five  thousand  dollars 
of  his  club's  money,  and  had  founded  upon  it  the  House 
of  Sprowl  of  many  millions  ?  He  was  quite  cool  now — 
a  trifle  anxious  to  know  what  Munn  meant  to  ask  for, 
but  confident  that  his  millions  were  a  buckler  and  a 
shield  to  the  honored  name  of  Sprowl. 

"I'll  see  this  fellow,  Munn,  after  breakfast,"  he  said, 
lighting  an  expensive  cigar. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  volunteered  Lansing,  casually, 
strolling  out  towards  the  veranda. 

"No,  no!"  called  out  Sprowl;  "you'll  only  hamper 
me."  But  Lansing  did  not  hear  him  outside  in  the 
sunshine. 

Agatha  Sprowl  laid  one  fair,  heavily  ringed  hand  on 
the  table  and  pushed  her  chair  back.  The  Major  gal 
lantly  waddled  to  withdraw  her  chair;  she  rose  with  a 
gesture  of  thanks,  and  a  glance  which  shot  the  Major 
through  and  through — a  wound  he  never  could  accus 
tom  himself  to  receive  with  stoicism. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  turned  carelessly  away,  followed  by  her 
two  Great  Danes — a  superb  trio,  woman  and  dogs  beau- 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

tifully  built  and  groomed,  and  expensive  enough  to 
please  even  such  an  amateur  as  Peyster  Sprowl,  M.F.H. 

"Gad,  Sprowl!"  sputtered  the  Major,  "your  wife 
grows  handsomer  every  minute — and  you  grow  fatter." 

Sprowl,  midway  in  a  glass  of  claret,  said:  "This  sim 
ple  backwoods  regime  is  what  she  and  I  need." 

Agatha  Sprowl  was  certainly  handsome,  but  the 
Major's  eyesight  was  none  of  the  best.  She  had  not 
been  growing  younger;  there  were  lines;  also  a  discreet 
employment  of  tints  on  a  very  silky  skin,  which  was 
not  quite  as  fresh  as  it  had  once  been. 

Dr.  Lansing,  strolling  on  the  veranda  with  his  pipe, 
met  her  and  her  big  dogs  turning  the  corner  in  full  sun 
light.  Coursay  was  with  her,  his  eager,  flushed  face 
close  to  hers ;  but  he  fell  back  when  he  saw  his  kinsman 
Lansing,  and  presently  retired  to  the  lawn  to  unreel 
and  dry  out  a  couple  of  wet  silk  lines. 

Agatha  Sprowl  sat  down  on  the  veranda  railing,  ex 
changing  a  gay  smile  across  the  lawn  with  Coursay; 
then  her  dark  eyes  met  Lansing's  steel-gray  ones. 

"Good-morning,  once  more,"  she  said,  mockingly. 

He  returned  her  greeting,  and  began  to  change  his 
mist  leader  for  a  white  one. 

"Will  you  kindly  let  Jack  Coursay  alone?"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"No,"  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Are  you  serious?"  she  asked,  as  though  the  idea 
amused  her. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied,  pleasantly. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  came  here  because  he  came?" 
she  inquired,  with  faint  sarcasm  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  perfect  good-nature.  "You 

66 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

see  he's  my  own  kin;  you  see  I'm  the  old-fashioned  sort 
— a  perfect  fool,  Mrs.  Sprowl." 

There  was  a  silence;  he  unwound  the  glistening  leader; 
she  flicked  at  shadows  with  her  dog- whip ;  the  Great  Danes 
yawned  and  laid  their  heavy  heads  against  her  knees. 

"Then  you  are  a  fool,"  she  concluded,  serenely. 

He  was  young  enough  to  redden. 

Three  years  ago  she  had  thought  it  time  to  marry 
somebody,  if  she  ever  intended  to  marry  at  all;  so  she 
threw  over  half  a  dozen  young  fellows  like  Coursay,  and 
married  Sprowl.  For  two  years  her  beauty,  audacity, 
and  imprudence  kept  a  metropolis  and  two  capitals  in 
food  for  scandal.  And  now  for  a  year  gossip  was  coup 
ling  her  name  with  Coursay 's. 

"I  warned  you  at  Palm  Beach  that  I'd  stop  this," 
said  Lansing,  looking  directly  into  her  eyes.  "You  see, 
I  know  his  mother." 

"Stop  what?"  she  asked,  coolly. 

He  went  on:  "Jack  is  a  curiously  decent  boy;  he 
views  his  danger  without  panic,  but  with  considerable 
surprise.  But  nobody  can  tell  what  he  may  do.  As 
for  me,  I'm  indifferent,  liberal,  and  reasonable  in  my 
views  of  ...  other  people's  conduct.  But  Jack  is  not 
one  of  those  '  other  people,'  you  see." 

"And  /  am?"  she  suggested,  serenely. 

"Exactly;  I'm  not  your  keeper." 

"So  you  confine  your  attention  to  Jack  and  the  Dec 
alogue?" 

"As  for  the  Commandments,"  observed  Lansing, 
"any  ass  can  shatter  them  with  his  hind  heels,  so  why 
should  he?  If  he  must  be  an  ass,  let  him  be  an  original 
ass — not  a  cur," 

67 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"A  cur,"  repeated  Agatha  Sprowl,  unsteadily. 

' '  An  affaire  de  coeur  with  a  married  woman  is  an  affair 
do  cur,"  said  Lansing,  calmly — "  Gallicize  it  as  you  wish, 
make  it  smart  and  fashionable  as  you  can.  I  told  you 
I  was  old-fashioned.  .  .  .  And  I  mean  it,  madam." 

The  leader  had  eluded  him;  he  uncoiled  it  again;  she 
mechanically  took  it  between  her  delicate  fingers  and 
held  it  steady  while  he  measured  and  shortened  it  by 
six  inches. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth,  "that 
it  is  your  mission  to  padlock  me  to  that — in  there?" 

Lansing  turned,  following  her  eyes.  She  was  looking 
at  her  husband. 

"No,"  replied  Lansing,  serenely;  "but  I  shall  see  that 
you  don't  transfer  the  padlock  to  ...  that,  out  there" 
— glancing  at  Coursay  on  the  lawn. 

"Try  it,"  she  breathed,  and  let  go  of  the  leader, 
which  flew  up  in  silvery  crinkles,  the  cast  of  brightly 
colored  flies  dancing  in  the  sunshine. 

"Oh,  let  him  alone,"  said  Lansing,  wearily;  "all  the 
men  in  Manhattan  are  drivelling  about  you.  Let  him 
go;  he's  a  sorry  trophy — and  there's  no  natural  treach 
ery  in  him;  .  .  .  it's  not  in  our  blood;  .  .  .  it's  too  cheap 
for  us,  and  we  can't  help  saying  so  when  we're  in  our 
right  minds." 

There  was  a  little  color  left  in  her  face  when  she  stood 
up,  her  hands  resting  on  the  spiked  collars  of  her  dogs. 
"The  trouble  with  you,"  she  said,  smiling  adorably, 
"is  your  innate  delicacy." 

"  I  know  I  am  brutal,"  he  said,  grimly;  "let  him  alone." 

She  gave  him  a  pretty  salutation,  crossed  the  lawn, 
passed  her  husband,  who  had  just  ridden  up  on  a  pow- 

£8 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

erful  sorrel,  and  called  brightly  to  Coursay:  "Take  me 
fishing,  Jack,  or  I'll  yawn  my  head  off  my  shoulders." 

Before  Lansing  could  recover  his  wits  the  audacious 
beauty  had  stepped  into  the  canoe  at  the  edge  of  the 
lawn,  and  young  Coursay,  eager  and  radiant,  gave  a 
flourish  to  his  paddle,  and  drove  it  into  the  glittering 
water. 

If  Sprowl  found  anything  disturbing  to  his  peace  of 
mind  in  the  proceeding,  he  did  not  betray  it.  He  sat 
hunched  up  on  his  big  sorrel,  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant 
clearing,  where  the  white  gable-end  of  O'Hara's  house 
rose  among  the  trees. 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  his  mount  and  galloped  off  up 
the  river  road;  the  sun  glowed  on  his  broad  back,  and 
struck  fire  on  his  spurs,  then  horse  and  rider  were  gone 
into  the  green  shadows  of  the  woods. 

To  play  spy  was  not  included  in  Lansing's  duties  as 
he  understood  them.  He  gave  one  disgusted  glance 
after  the  canoe,  shrugged,  set  fire  to  the  tobacco  in  his 
pipe,  and  started  slowly  along  the  river  towards  O'Hara's 
with  a  vague  idea  of  lending  counsel,  aid,  and  counte 
nance  to  his  president  during  the  expected  interview 
with  Munn. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  he  met  Major  Brent  and  old 
Peter,  the  head-keeper.  The  latter  stood  polishing  the 
barrels  of  his  shot-gun  with  a  red  bandanna;  the  Major 
was  fuming  and  wagging  his  head. 

"Doctor!"  he  called  out,  when  Lansing  appeared; 
"Peter  says  they  raised  the  devil  down  at  O'Hara's  last 
night!  This  can't  go  on,  d'ye  see!  No,  by  Heaven!" 

"What  were  they  doing,  Peter?"  asked  Lansing, 
coming  up  to  where  the  old  man  stood. 

69 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Them  Shinin'  Banders?  Waal,  sir,  they  was  kinder 
rigged  out  in  white  night -gounds — robes  o'  Jordan  they 
call  'em — an'  they  had  rubbed  some  kind  o'  shiny  stuff 
— like  matches — all  over  these  there  night-gounds,  an' 
then  they  sang  a  spell,  an'  then  they  all  sot  down  on  the 
edge  o'  the  river." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Lansing,  laughing. 

"Wait!"  growled  the  Major. 

"Waal,"  continued  old  Peter,  "the  shinin'  stuff  on 
them  night-gounds  was  that  bright  that  I  seen  the 
fishes  swimmin'  round  kinder  dazed  like.  'Gosh!'  sez 
I  to  m'self,  it's  like  a  Jack  a-drawnin'  them  trout — 
yaas'r.  So  I  hollers  out,  'Here!  You  Shinin'  Band 
folk,  you  air  a-drawin'  the  trout.  Quit  it!'  sez  I,  ha'sh 
an'  pert-like.  Then  that  there  Munn,  the  Prophet,  he 
up  an'  hollers,  'Hark  how  the  heathen  rage!'  he  hollers. 
An'  with  that,  blamed  if  he  didn't  sling  a  big  net  into  the 
river,  an'  all  them  Shinin'  Banders  ketched  holt  an'  they 
drawed  it  clean  up-stream.  '  Quit  that !'  I  hollers, '  it's  agin 
the  game  laws!'  But  the  Prophet  he  hollers  back,  '  Hark 
how  the  heathen  rage!'  Then  they  drawed  that  there 
net  out,  an'  it  were  full  o'  trout,  big  an'  little — " 

"Great  Heaven!"  roared  the  Major,  black  in  the  face. 

"I  think,"  said  Lansing,  quietly,  "that  I'll  walk  down 
to  O'Hara's  and  reason  with  our  friend  Munn.  Sprowl 
may  want  a  man  to  help  him  in  this  matter." 


Ill 

When  Sprowl  galloped  his  sorrel  mare  across  the  bridge 
and  up  to  the  O'Hara  house,  he  saw  a  man  and  a  young 

70 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

girl  seated  on  the  grass  of  the  river  -  bank,  under  the 
shade  of  an  enormous  elm. 

Sprowl  dismounted  heavily,  and  led  his  horse  towards 
the  couple  under  the  elm.  He  recognized  Munn  in  the 
thin,  long-haired,  full-bearded  man  who  rose  to  face 
him;  and  he  dropped  the  bridle  from  his  hand,  freeing 
the  sorrel  mare. 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  in  silence ;  the  mare 
strayed  leisurely  up-stream,  cropping  the  fresh  grass;  the 
young  girl  turned  her  head  towards  Sprowl  with  a  cu 
rious  movement,  as  though  listening,  rather  than  look 
ing. 

"Mr.  Munn,  I  believe,"  said  Sprowl,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  The  Reverend  Amasa  Munn,"  corrected  the  Prophet, 
quietly.  "You  are  Peyster  Sprowl." 

Sprowl  turned  and  looked  full  at  the  girl  on  the  grass. 
The  shadow  of  her  big  straw  hat  fell  across  her  eyes ;  she 
faced  him  intently. 

Sprowl  glanced  at  his  mare,  whistled,  and  turned 
squarely  on  his  heel,  walking  slowly  along  the  river- 
bank.  The  sorrel  followed  like  a  dog;  presently  Munn 
stood  up  and  deliberately  stalked  off  after  Sprowl,  re 
joining  that  gentleman  a  few  rods  down  the  river-bank. 

"Well,"  said  Sprowl,  turning  suddenly  on  Munn, 
"what  are  you  doing  here?" 

From  his  lank  height  Munn's  eyes  were  nevertheless 
scarcely  level  with  the  eyes  of  the  burly  president. 

"I'm  here,"  said  Munn,  "to  sell  the  land." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Sprowl,  curtly.     "How  much?" 

Munn  picked  a  buttercup  and  bit  off  the  stem.  With 
the  blossom  between  his  teeth  he  surveyed  the  sky,  the 
river,  the  forest,  and  then  the  features  of  Sprowl. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"How  much?"  asked  Sprowl,  impatiently. 

Munn  named  a  sum  that  staggered  Sprowl,  but  Munn 
could  perceive  no  tremor  in  the  fat,  blank  face  before 
him. 

"And  if  we  refuse?"  suggested  Sprowl. 

Munn  only  looked  at  him. 

Sprowl  repeated  the  question. 

"Well,"  observed  Munn,  stroking  his  beard  reflective 
ly,  "there's  that  matter  of  the  title." 

This  time  Sprowl  went  white  to  his  fat  ears.  Munn 
merely  glanced  at  him,  then  looked  at  the  river. 

"  I  will  buy  the  title  this  time,"  said  Sprowl,  hoarsely. 

"You  can't,"  said  Munn. 

A  terrible  shock  struck  through  Sprowl;  he  saw 
through  a  mist ;  he  laid  his  hand  on  a  tree-trunk  for 
support,  mechanically  facing  Munn  all  the  while. 

"Can't!"  he  repeated,  with  dry  lips. 

"No,  you  can't  buy  it." 

"Why?" 

"O'Hara's  daughter  has  it." 

"  But— she  will  sell !  Won't  she  sell ?  Where  is  she?" 
burst  out  Sprowl. 

"  She  won't  sell,"  said  Munn,  studying  the  ghastly  face 
of  the  president. 

"You  can  make  her  sell,"  said  Sprowl.  "What  is 
your  price?" 

"I  can't  make  her  sell  the  title  to  your  club  property," 
said  Munn.  "She'll  sell  this  land  here.  Take  it  or 
leave  it." 

"  If  I  take  it — will  you  leave  ?"  asked  Sprowl,  hoarsely. 

Munn  smiled,  then  nodded. 

"And  will  that  shut  your  mouth,  you  dirty  scoundrel  ?" 

72 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

said  Sprowl,  gripping  his  riding-crop  till  his  fat  finger 
nails  turned  white. 

"It  will  shut  my  mouth,"  said  Munn,  still  with  his 
fixed  smile. 

"How  much  extra  to  keep  this  matter  of  the  title 
quiet — as  long  as  I  live?" 

"As  long  as  you  live?"  repeated  Munn,  surprised. 

"Yes,  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  they  say  of  me  after 
I'm  dead,"  snarled  Sprowl. 

Munn  watched  him  for  a  moment,  plucked  another 
buttercup,  pondered,  smoothed  out  his  rich,  brown,  silky 
beard,  and  finally  mentioned  a  second  sum. 

Sprowl  drew  a  check-book  from  the  breast -pocket  of 
his  coat,  and  filled  in  two  checks  with  a  fountain  pen. 
These  he  held  up  before  Munn's  snapping,  yellowish 
eyes. 

"This  blackmail,"  said  Sprowl,  thickly,  "is  paid  now 
for  the  last  time.  If  you  come  after  me  again  you  come 
to  your  death,  for  I'll  smash  your  skull  in  with  one 
blow,  and  take  my  chances  to  prove  insanity.  And 
I've  enough  money  to  prove  it." 

Munn  waited. 

"I'll  buy  you  this  last  time,"  continued  Sprowl,  re 
covering  his  self-command.  "Now,  you  tell  me  where 
O'Hara's  child  is,  and  how  you  are  going  to  prevent 
her  from  ever  pressing  that  suit  which  he  dropped." 

"O'Hara's  daughter  is  here.  I  control  her,"  said 
Munn,  quietly. 

"You  mean  she's  one  of  your  infernal  flock?"  de 
manded  Sprowl. 

"One  of  the  Shining  Band,"  said  Munn,  with  a  trace 
of  a  whine  in  his  voice. 

73 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Where  are  the  papers  in  that  proceeding,  then? 
You  said  O'Hara  burned  them,  you  liar!" 

"She  has  them  in  a  box  in  her  bedroom,"  replied  Munn. 

"Does  she  know  what  they  mean?"  asked  Sprowl, 
aghast. 

"No — but  I  do,"  replied  Munn,  with  his  ominous 
smile. 

"How  do  you  know  she  does  not  understand  their 
meaning?" 

"Because,"  replied  Munn,  laughing,  "she  can't  read." 

Sprowl  did  not  believe  him,  but  he  was  at  his  mercy. 
He  stood  with  his  heavy  head  hanging,  pondering  a 
moment,  then  whistled  his  sorrel.  The  mare  came  to 
him  and  laid  her  dusty  nose  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  see  these  checks?"  he  said. 

Munn  assented. 

"You  get  them  when  you  put  those  papers  in  my 
hands.  Understand?  And  when  you  bring  me  the 
deed  of  this  cursed  property  here — house  and  all." 

"A  week  from  to-day;"  said  Munn;  his  voice  shook 
in  spite  of  him.  Few  men  can  face  sudden  wealth  with 
a  yawn. 

"And  after  that —  '  began  Sprowl,  and  glared  at 
Munn  with  such  a  fury  that  the  Prophet  hastily  stepped 
backward  and  raised  a  nervous  hand  to  his  beard. 

"It's  a  square  deal,"  he  said;  and  Sprowl  knew  that 
he  meant  it,  at  least  for  the  present. 

The  president  mounted  heavily,  and  sought  his 
bridle  and  stirrups. 

"I'll  meet  you  here  in  a  week  from  to-day,  hour  for 
hour;  I'll  give  you  twenty-four  hours  after  that  to  pack 
up  and  move,  bag  and  baggage." 

74 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

"Done,"  said  Munn. 

"Then  get  out  of  my  way,  you  filthy  beast!"  growled 
Sprowl,  swinging  his  horse  and  driving  the  spurs  in. 

Munn  fell  back  with  a  cry;  the  horse  plunged  past, 
brushing  him,  tearing  out  across  the  pasture,  over  the 
bridge,  and  far  down  the  stony  road  Munn  heard  the 
galloping.  He  had  been  close  to  death;  he  did  not 
quite  know  whether  Sprowl  had  meant  murder  or  wheth 
er  it  was  carelessness  or  his  own  fault  that  the  horse 
had  not  struck  him  and  ground  him  into  the  sod. 

However  it  was,  he  conceived  a  new  respect  for 
Sprowl,  and  promised  himself  that  if  he  ever  was  obliged 
to  call  again  upon  Sprowl  for  financial  assistance  he 
would  do  it  through  a  telephone. 

A  dozen  women,  dressed  alike  in  a  rather  pretty  gray 
uniform,  were  singing  up  by  the  house;  he  looked  at 
them  with  a  sneer,  then  walked  back  along  the  river  to 
where  the  young  girl  still  sat  under  the  elm. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "and  I 
don't  want  any  more  refusals  or  reasons  or  sentiments. 
I  want  to  see  the  papers  in  that  steel  box." 

She  turned  towards  him  in  that  quaint,  hesitating, 
listening  attitude. 

"The  Lord,"  he  said,  more  cheerfully,  "has  put  it 
into  my  head  that  we  must  journey  once  more.  I've 
had  a  prayerful  wrestle  out  yonder,  and  I  see  light. 
The  Lord  tells  me  to  sell  this  land  to  the  strangers  with 
out  the  gates,  and  I'm  going  to  sell  it  to  the  glory  of 
God." 

"How  can  you  sell  it?"  said  the  girl,  quietly. 

"  Isn't  all  our  holdings  in  common  ?"  demanded  Munn, 
sharply. 

75 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"You  know  that  I  am  not  one  of  you,"  said  the  girl. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  said  Munn;  "you  don't  want  to  be 
because  the  light  has  been  denied  you,  but  I've  sealed 
you  and  sanctified  you  to  the  Shining  Band,  and  you 
just  can't  help  being  one  of  us.  Besides,"  he  continued, 
with  an  ugly  smile,  "I'm  your  legal  guardian." 

This  was  a  lie;  but  she  did  not  know  it. 

"So  I  want  to  see  those  papers,"  he  added. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  legal  matters;  I've  got  to  examine  'em  or  I 
can't  sell  this  land." 

"  Father  told  me  not  to  open  the  box  until  ...  I  found 
an  ...  honest  man,"  she  said,  steadily. 

Munn  glared  at  her.  She  had  caught  him  in  a  lie  years 
ago;  she  never  forgot  it. 

"Where's  the  key?"  he  demanded. 

She  was  silent. 

"I'll  give  you  till  supper-time  to  find  that  key,"  said 
Munn,  confidently,  and  walked  on  towards  the  house. 

But  before  he  had  fairly  emerged  from  the  shadow  of 
the  elm  he  met  Lansing  face  to  face,  and  the  young 
man  halted  him  with  a  pleasant  greeting,  asking  if  he 
were  not  the  Reverend  Doctor  Munn. 

"That's  my  name,"  said  Munn,  briefly. 

"  I  was  looking  for  Mr.  Sprowl;  I  thought  to  meet  him 
here;  we  were  to  speak  to  you  about  the  netting  of  trout 
in  the  river,"  said  Lansing,  good-humoredly. 

Munn  regarded  him  in  sulky  silence. 

"It  won't  do,"  continued  Lansing,  smiling;  "if  you 
net  trout  you'll  have  the  wardens  after  you." 

"Oh!  and  I  suppose  you'll  furnish  the  information," 
sneered  Munn. 

76 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

"I  certainly  will,"  replied  Lansing. 
Munn  had  retraced  his  steps  towards  the  river.  As 
the  men  passed  before  Eileen  O'Hara,  Lansing  raised 
his  cap.  She  did  not  return  his  salute;  she  looked  tow 
ards  the  spot  where  he  and  Munn  had  halted,  and  her 
face  bore  that  quaint,  listening  expression,  almost  piti 
fully  sweet,  as  though  she  were  deaf. 

"Peter,  our  head -keeper,  saw  you  netting  trout  in 
that  pool  last  night,"  said  Lansing. 

Munn  examined  the  water  and  muttered  that  the 
Bible  gave  him  his  authority  for  that  sort  of  fish 
ing. 

"He's  a  fake,"  thought  Lansing,  in  sudden  disgust. 
Involuntarily  he  glanced  around  at  the  girl  under  the 
elm.  The  beauty  of  her  pale  face  startled  him.  Surely 
innocence  looked  out  of  those  dark-blue  eyes,  fixed  on 
him  under  the  shadow  of  her  straw  hat.  He  noted  that 
she  also  wore  the  silvery-gray  uniform  of  the  elect.  He 
turned  his  eyes  towards  the  house,  where  a  dozen  women, 
old  and  young,  were  sitting  out  under  the  tree,  sewing 
and  singing  peacefully.  The  burden  of  their  song  came 
sweetly  across  the  pasture;  a  golden  robin,  high  in  the 
elm's  feathery  tip,  warbled  incessant  accompaniment 
to  the  breeze  and  the  flowing  of  water  and  the  far  song 
of  the  women. 

"We  don't  mean  to  annoy  you,"  said  Lansing,  quietly; 
"I  for  one  believe  that  we  shall  find  you  and  your  com 
munity  the  best  of  courteous  neighbors." 

Munn  looked  at  him  with  his  cunning,  amber-yellow 
eyes  and  stroked  his  beard. 

"What  do  you  want,  anyway?"  he  said. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  want,"  said  Lansing,  sharply; 

77 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  want  you  and  your  people   to  observe  the  game 
laws." 

"  Keep  your  shirt  on,  young  man,"  said  Munn,  coarse 
ly,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  Before  he  had  taken  the  sec 
ond  step  Lansing  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  spun 
him  around,  his  grip  tightening  like  a  vise. 

"What  y'  doing?"  snarled  Munn,  shrinking  and 
squirming,  terrified  by  the  violent  grasp,  the  pain  of 
which  almost  sickened  him. 

Lansing  looked  at  him,  then  shoved  him  out  of  his 
path,  and  carefully  rinsed  his  hands  in  the  stream. 
Then  he  laughed  and  turned  around,  but  Munn  was 
making  rapid  time  towards  the  house,  where  the  gray- 
clad  women  sat  singing  under  the  neglected  apple-trees. 
The  young  man's  eyes  fell  on  the  girl  under  the  elm;  she 
was  apparently  watching  his  every  movement  from  those 
dark-blue  eyes  under  the  straw  hat. 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  went  to  her,  and  told  her 
politely  how  amiable  had  been  his  intentions,  and  how 
stringent  the  game  laws  were,  and  begged  her  to  believe 
that  he  intended  no  discourtesy  to  her  community  when 
he  warned  them  against  the  wholesale  destruction  of 
the  trout. 

He  had  a  pleasant,  low  voice,  very  attractive  to 
women;  she  smiled  and  listened,  offering  no  com 
ment. 

"And  I  want  to  assure  you,"  he  ended,  "that  we  at 
the  club  will  always  respect  your  boundaries  as  we 
know  you  will  respect  ours.  I  fear  one  of  our  keepers 
was  needlessly  rude  last  night — from  his  own  account. 
He's  an  old  man ;  he  supposes  that  all  people  know  the 
game  laws." 

78 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

Lansing  paused;  she  bent  her  head  a  trifle.  After  a 
silence  he  started  on,  saying,  "Good-morning,"  very 
pleasantly. 

"  I  wish  you  would  sit  down  and  talk  to  me,"  said  the 
girl,  without  raising  her  head. 

Lansing  was  too  astonished  to  reply;  she  turned  her 
head  partly  towards  him  as  though  listening.  Some 
thing  in  the  girl's  attitude  arrested  his  attention;  he 
involuntarily  dropped  on  one  knee  to  see  her  face.  It 
was  in  shadow. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  who  I  am,"  she  said,  without 
looking  at  him.  "I  am  Eily  O'Hara." 

Lansing  received  the  communication  with  perfect 
gravity.  "Your  father  owned  this  land?"  he  asked. 

"Yes;  I  own  it  now,  ...  I  think." 

He  was  silent,  curious,  amused. 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  repeated;  "I  have  never  seen  my 
father's  will." 

"Doubtless  your  lawyer  has  it,"  he  suggested. 

"No;  I  have  it.  It  is  in  a  steel  box;  I  have  the  key 
hanging  around  my  neck  inside  my  clothes.  I  have 
never  opened  the  box." 

"  But  why  do  you  not  open  the  box?"  asked  Lansing, 
smiling. 

She  hesitated;  color  crept  into  her  cheeks.  "I  have 
waited,"  she  said;  "I  was  alone;  my  father  said — that 
— that —  She  stammered;  the  rich  flush  deepened  to 
her  neck. 

Lansing,  completely  nonplussed,  sat  watching  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  that  young  face. 

' '  My  father  told  me  to  open  it  only  when  I  found  an 
honest  man  in  the  world,"  she  said,  slowly. 

79 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

The  undertone  of  pathos  in  her  voice  drove  the  smile 
from  Lansing's  lips. 

"Have  you  found  the  world  so  dishonest?"  he  asked, 
seriously. 

"I  don't  know;  I  came  from  Notre  Dame  de  Sainte 
Croix  last  year.  Mr.  Munn  was  my  guardian;  .  .  .  said 
he  was;  ...  I  suppose  he  is." 

Lansing  looked  at  her  in  sympathy. 

"I  am  not  one  of  the  community,"  she  said.  "I 
only  stay  because  I  have  no  other  home  but  this.  I 
have  no  money, ...  at  least  I  know  of  none  that  is  mine." 
Lansing  was  silent  and  attentive. 

"  I — I  heard  your  voice;  ...  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
— to  hear  you  speak  to  me,"  she  said.  A  new  timidity 
came  into  her  tone;  she  raised  her  head.  "I — some 
how  when  you  spoke — I  felt  that  you — you  were  hon 
est."  She  stammered  again,  but  Lansing's  cool  voice 
brought  her  out  of  her  difficulty  and  painful  shyness. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  Dr.  Lansing,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  open  my  steel  box  and  read  my  papers  for 
me?"  she  inquired,  innocently. 

"I  will — if  you  wish,"  he  said,  impulsively;  "if  you 
think  it  wise.  But  I  think  you  had  better  read  the 
papers  for  yourself." 

"Why,  I  can't  read,"  she  said,  apparently  surprised 
that  he  should  not  know  it. 

"You  mean  that  you  were  not  taught  to  read  in  your 
convent  school?"  he  asked,  incredulously. 

A  curious  little  sound  escaped  her  lips;  she  raised 
both  slender  hands  and  unpinned  her  hat.  Then  she 
turned  her  head  to  his. 

80 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

The  deep-blue  beauty  of  her  eyes  thrilled  him;  then 
he  started  and  leaned  forward,  closer,  closer  to  her  ex 
quisite  face. 

"My  child,"  he  cried,  softly,  "my  poor  child!"  And 
she  smiled  and  fingered  the  straw  hat  in  her  lap. 

"Will  you  read  my  father's  papers  for  me?"  she  said. 

"Yes — yes — if  you  wish.  Yes,  indeed!"  After  a 
moment  he  said:  "How  long  have  you  been  blind?" 

« 

IV 

That  evening,  at  dusk,  Lansing  came  into  the  club, 
and  went  directly  to  his  room.  He  carried  a  small, 
shabby  satchel;  and  when  he  had  locked  his  door  he 
opened  the  satchel  and  drew  from  it  a  flat  steel  box. 

For  half  an  hour  he  sat  by  his  open  window  in  the 
quiet  starlight,  considering  the  box,  turning  it  over 
and  over  in  his  hands.  At  length  he  opened  his  trunk, 
placed  the  box  inside,  locked  the  trunk,  and  noiselessly 
left  the  room. 

He  encountered  Coursay  in  the  hall,  and  started  to 
pass  him  with  an  abstracted  nod,  then  changed  his 
mind  and  slipped  his  arm  through  the  arm  of  his  young 
kinsman. 

"Thought  you  meant  to  cut  me,"  said  Coursay,  half 
laughing,  half  in  earnest. 

"Why?"  Lansing  stopped  short;  then,  "Oh,  because 
you  played  the  fool  with  Agatha  in  the  canoe  ?  You 
two  will  find  yourselves  in  a  crankier  craft  than  that  if 
you  don't  look  sharp." 

"You  have  an  ugly  way  of  putting  it,"  began  Cour 
say.  But  Lansing  scowled  and  said: 

81 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Jack,  I  want  advice;  I'm  troubled,  old  chap.  Come 
into  my  room  while  I  dress  for  dinner.  Don't  shy  and 
stand  on  your  hind-legs;  it's  not  about  Agatha  Sprowl; 
it's  about  me,  and  I'm  in  trouble." 

The  appeal  flattered  and  touched  Coursay,  who  had 
never  expected  that  he,  a  weak  and  spineless  back 
slider,  could  possibly  be  of  aid  or  comfort  to  his  self- 
sufficient  and  celebrated  cousin,  Dr.  Lansing. 

They  entered  Lansing's  rooms;  Coursay  helped  him 
self  to  some  cognac,  and  smoked,  waiting  for  Lansing  to 
emerge  from  his  dressing-room. 

Presently,  bathed,  shaved,  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
Lansing  came  in,  tying  his  tie,  a  cigarette  unlighted  be 
tween  his  teeth. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "give  me  advice,  not  as  a  self-cen 
tred,  cautious,  and  orderly  citizen  of  Manhattan,  but  as 
a  young  man  whose  heart  leads  his  head  every  time !  I 
want  that  sort  of  advice;  and  I  can't  give  it  to  my 
self." 

"Do  you  mean  it  ?"  demanded  Coursay,  incredulously. 

"By  Heaven,  I  do!"  returned  Lansing,  biting  his 
words  short,  as  the  snap  of  a  whip. 

He  turned  his  back  to  the  mirror,  lighted  his  cigarette, 
took  one  puff,  threw  it  into  the  grate.  Then  he  told 
Coursay  what  had  occurred  between  him  and  the  young 
girl  under  the  elm,  reciting  the  facts  minutely  and  ex 
actly  as  they  occurred. 

"I  have  the  box  in  my  trunk  yonder,"  he  went  on; 
"the  poor  little  thing  managed  to  slip  out  while  Munn 
was  in  the  barn;  I  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  road." 

After  a  moment  Coursay  asked  if  the  girl  was  stone 
blind. 

82 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

"No,"  said  Lansing;  "she  can  distinguish  light  from 
darkness;  she  can  even  make  out  form — in  the  dark; 
but  a  strong  light  completely  blinds  her." 

"Can  you  help  her?"  asked  Coursay,  with  quick  pity. 

Lansing  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  went  on :  "  It's 
been  coming  on — this  blindness — since  her  fifth  year; 
she  could  always  see  to  read  better  in  dark  corners  than 
in  a  full  light.  For  the  last  two  years  she  has  not  been 
able  to  see;  and  she's  only  twenty,  Jack — only  twenty." 

"Can't  you  help  her?"  repeated  Coursay,  a  painful 
catch  in  his  throat. 

"I  haven't  examined  her,"  said  Lansing,  curtly. 

"But — but  you  are  an  expert  in  that  sort  of  thing," 
protested  his  cousin;  "isn't  this  in  your  line?" 

"Yes;  I  sat  and  talked  to  her  half  an  hour  and  did 
not  know  she  was  blind.  She  has  a  pair  of  magnificent 
deep-blue  eyes;  nobody,  talking  to  her,  could  suspect 
such  a  thing.  Still — her  eyes  were  shaded  by  her  hat." 

"What  kind  of  blindness  is  it?"  asked  Coursay,  in  a 
shocked  voice. 

"I  think  I  know,"  said  Lansing.  "I  think  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  she  has  a  rather  unusual  form  of 
lamellar  cataract." 

"Curable?"  motioned  Coursay. 

"I  haven't  examined  her;  how  could  I —  But — I'm 
going  to  do  it." 

"And  if  you  operate?"  asked  Coursay,  hopefully. 

"Operate?  Yes — yes,  of  course.  It  is  needling,  you 
know,  with  probability  of  repetition.  We  expect  ab 
sorption  to  do  the  work  for  us — bar  accidents  and  other 
things." 

"When  will  you  operate?"  inquired  Coursay, 

83 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Lansing  broke  out,  harshly:  "God  knows!  That 
swindler,  Munn,  keeps  her  a  prisoner.  Doctors  long 
ago  urged  her  to  submit  to  an  operation;  Munn  refused, 
and  he  and  his  deluded  women  have  been  treating  her 
by  prayer  for  years — the  miserable  mountebank!" 

"You  mean  that  he  won't  let  you  try  to  help  her?" 

"I  mean  just  exactly  that,  Jack." 

Coursay  got  up  with  his  clinched  hands  swinging 
and  his  eager  face  red  as  a  pippin.  "Why,  then,"  he 
said,  "we'll  go  and  get  her!  Come  on;  I  can't  sit  here 
and  let  such  things  happen!" 

Lansing  laughed  the  laugh  of  a  school-boy  bent  on 
deviltry. 

"  Good  old  Jack!  That's  the  sort  of  advice  I  wanted," 
he  said,  affectionately.  "We  may  see  our  names  in  the 
morning  papers  for  this ;  but  who  cares  ?  We  may  be  ar 
rested  for  a  few  unimportant  and  absurd  things — but  who 
cares  ?  Munn  will  probably  sue  us ;  who  cares  ?  At  any 
rate,  we're  reasonably  certain  of  a  double-leaded  column 
in  the  yellow  press;  but  do  you  give  a  tinker's  damn?" 

"Not  one!"  said  Coursay,  calmly. 

Then  they  went  down  to  dinner. 

Sprowl,  being  unwell,  dined  in  his  own  rooms;  Agatha 
Sprowl  was  more  witty  and  brilliant  and  charming  than 
ever;  but  Coursay  did  not  join  her  on  the  veranda  that 
evening,  and  she  sat  for  two  hours  enduring  the  plati 
tudes  of  Colonel  Hyssop  and  Major  Brent,  and  planning 
serious  troubles  for  Lansing,  to  whose  interference  she 
attributed  Coursay's  non-appearance. 

But  Coursay  and  Lansing  had  other  business  in  hand 
that  night.  Fortune,  too,  favored  them  when  they 
arrived  at  the  O'Hara  house;  for  there,  leaning  on  the 

84 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

decaying  gate,  stood  Eileen  O'Hara,  her  face  raised  to 
the  sky  as  though  seeking  in  the  soft  star  radiance  which 
fell  upon  her  lids  a  celestial  balm  for  her  sightless  eyes. 

She  was  alone;  she  heard  Lansing's  step,  and  knew  it, 
too.  From  within  the  house  came  the  deadened  sound 
of  women's  voices  singing: 

"Light  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

Unbind  mine  eyes, 
Lest  I  in  darkness  lie 

While  my  soul  dies. 
Blind,  at  Thy  feet  I  fall, 

All  blindly  kneel, 
Fainting,  Thy  name  I  call; 

Touch  me  and  heal!" 

In  the  throbbing  hush  of  the  starlight  a  whippoor- 
will  called  three  times;  the  breeze  rose  in  the  forest;  a 
little  wind  came  fragrantly,  puff  on  puff,  along  the  road, 
stirring  the  silvery  dust. 

She  laid  one  slim  hand  in  Lansing's;  steadily  and 
noiselessly  they  traversed  the  dew-wet  meadow,  crossed 
the  river  by  the  second  bridge,  and  so  came  to  the  dark 
club-house  under  the  trees. 

There  was  nobody  visible  except  the  steward  when 
they  entered  the  hall. 

"Two  rooms  and  a  bath,  John,"  said  Lansing,  quietly; 
and  followed  the  steward  up  the  stairs,  guiding  his 
blind  charge. 

The  rooms  were  on  the  north  angle;  Lansing  and 
Coursay  inspected  them  carefully,  gave  the  steward 
proper  direction,  and  dismissed  him. 

"Get  me  a  telegram  blank,"  said  Lansing.     Coursay 

85 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

brought  one.     His  cousin  pencilled  a  despatch,  and  the 
young  man  took  it  and  left  the  room. 

The  girl  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  silent,  intent,  follow 
ing  Lansing  with  her  sightless  eyes. 

"Do  you  trust  me?"  he  asked,  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  .  .  .  oh,  yes,  with  all  my  heart!" 

He  steadied  his  voice.  "I  think  I  can  help  you — I 
am  sure  I  can.  I  have  sent  to  New  York  for  Dr.  Court 
ney  Thayer." 

He  drew  a  longbreath ;  her  beauty  almost  unnerved  him. 
"Thayer  will  operate;  he's  the  best  of  all.  Are  you  afraid?" 

She  lifted  one  hand  and  held  it  out,  hesitating.  He 
took  it. 

"No,  not  afraid,"  she  said. 

"You  are  wise;  there  is  no  need  for  fear.  All  will 
come  right,  my  child." 

She  listened  intently. 

"It  is  necessary  in  such  operations  that  the  patient 
should,  above  all,  be  cheerful  and — and  happy — " 

"Oh,  yes,  .  .  .  and  I  am  happy!  Truly!  truly!"  she 
breathed. 

— and  brave,  and  patient,  and  obedient — and — " 
His  voice  trembled  a  trifle.  "You  must  lie  verv  still," 
he  ended,  hastily. 

"Will  you  be  here?" 

"Yes — yes,  of  course!" 

"Then  I  will  lie  very  still." 

He  left  her  curled  up  in  an  easy-chair,  smiling  at  him 
with  blind  eyes ;  he  scarcely  found  his  way  down-stairs 
for  all  his  eyesight.  He  stumbled  to  the  grill-room  door, 
felt  for  the  knob,  and  flung  it  open. 

A  flood  of  yellow  light  struck  him  like  a  blow;  through 

86 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

the  smoke  he  saw  the  wine-flushed  faces  of  Colonel 
Hyssop  and  Major  Brent  staring  at  him. 

"Gad,  Lansing!"  said  the  Major,  "you're  white  and 
shaky  as  a  ninety-nine-cent  toy  lamb.  Come  in  and 
have  a  drink,  m'boy!" 

"I  wanted  to  say,"  said  Lansing,  "that  I  have  a 
patient  in  5  and  6.  It's  an  emergency  case;  I've  wired 
for  Courtney  Thayer.  I  wish  to  ask  the  privilege  and 
courtesy  of  the  club  for  my  patient.  It's  unusual;  it's 
intrusive.  Absolute  and  urgent  necessity  is  my  plea." 

The  two  old  gentlemen  appeared  startled,  but  they 
hastily  assured  Lansing  that  his  request  would  be  hon 
ored  ;  and  Lansing  went  away  to  pace  the  veranda  until 
Coursay  returned  from  the  telegraph  station. 

In  the  grill-room  Major  Brent's  pop  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  Colonel  in  inflamed  inquiry. 

"Damme!"  snapped  the  Colonel,  "does  that  young 
man  take  this  club  for  a  hospital?" 

"He'll  be  washing  bandages  in  the  river  next;  he'll 
poison  the  trout  with  his  antiseptic  stuffs!"  suggested 
the  Major,  shuddering. 

"The  club's  going  to  the  dogs!"  said  the  Colonel, 
with  a  hearty  oath. 

But  he  did  not  know  how  near  to  the  dogs  the  club 
already  was. 


It  is  perfectly  true  that  the  club  and  the  dogs  were 
uncomfortably  close  together.  A  week  later  the  crisis 
came  when  Munn,  in  a  violent  rage,  accused  Sprowl  of 

87 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

spiriting  away  his  ward,  Eileen  O'Hara.  But  when 
Sprowl  at  last  comprehended  that  the  girl  and  the  pa 
pers  had  really  disappeared,  he  turned  like  a  maddened 
pig  on  Munn,  tore  the  signed  checks  to  shreds  before  his 
eyes,  and  cursed  him  steadily  as  long  as  he  remained 
within  hearing. 

As  for  Munn,  his  game  appeared  to  be  up.  He  hur 
ried  to  New  York,  and  spent  a  month  or  two  attempt 
ing  to  find  some  trace  of  his  ward,  then  his  money  gave 
out.  He  returned  to  his  community  and  wrote  a  cring 
ing  letter  to  Sprowl,  begging  him  to  buy  the  O'Hara 
land  for  next  to  nothing,  and  risk  the  legality  of  the 
transfer.  To  which  Sprowl  paid  no  attention.  A  week 
later  Munn  and  the  Shining  Band  left  for  Munnville, 
Maine. 

It  was  vaguely  understood  at  the  club  that  Lansing 
had  a  patient  in  5  and  6. 

"Probably  a  rich  woman  whom  he  can't  afford  to 
lose,"  suggested  Sprowl,  with  a  sneer;  "but  I'm  cursed 
if  I  can  see  why  he  should  turn  this  club  into  a  drug- 
shop  to  make  money  in!"  And  the  Colonel  and  the 
Major  agreed  that  it  was  indecent  in  the  extreme. 

To  his  face,  of  course,  Sprowl,  the  Colonel,  and  the 
Major  treated  Lansing  with  perfect  respect;  but  the 
faint  odor  of  antiseptics  from  rooms  5  and  6  made  them 
madder  and  madder  every  time  they  noticed  it. 

Meanwhile  young  Coursay  had  a  free  bridle;  Lansing 
was  never  around  to  interfere,  and  he  drove  and  rode 
and  fished  and  strolled  with  Agatha  Sprowl  until  neither 
he  nor  the  shameless  beauty  knew  whether  they  were 
standing  on  their  heads  or  their  heels.  To  be  in  love 
was  a  new  sensation  to  Agatha  Sprowl;  to  believe  him- 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

self  in  love  was  nothing  new  to  Coursay,  but  the  flavor 
never  palled. 

What  they  might  have  done — what,  perhaps,  they 
had  already  decided  to  do — nobody  but  they  knew. 
The  chances  are  that  they  would  have  bolted  if  they 
had  not  run  smack  into  that  rigid  sentinel  who  guards 
the  pathway  of  life.  The  sentinel  is  called  Fate.  And 
it  came  about  in  the  following  manner: 

Dr.  Courtney  Thayer  arrived  one  cool  day  early  in 
October;  Lansing  met  him  with  a  quiet  smile,  and, 
together,  these  eminent  gentlemen  entered  rooms  5 
and  6. 

A  few  moments  later  Courtney  Thayer  came  out, 
laughing,  followed  by  Lansing,  who  also  appeared  to 
be  a  prey  to  mirth. 

"She's  charming — she's  perfectly  charming!"  said 
Courtney  Thayer.  "Where  the  deuce  do  these  Yankee 
convent  people  get  that  elusive  Continental  flavor?  Her 
father  must  have  been  a  gentleman." 

"He  was  an  Irish  lumberman,"  said  Lansing.  After 
a  moment  he  added:  "So  you  won't  come  back,  doc 
tor?" 

"No,  it's  not  necessary;  you  know  that.  I've  an 
operation  to-morrow  in  Manhattan;  I  must  get  back 
to  town.  Wish  I  could  stay  and  shoot  grouse  with  you, 
but  I  can't." 

"Come  up  for  the  fall  flight  of  woodcock;  I'll  wire 
you  when  it's  on,"  urged  Lansing. 

"Perhaps;  good-bye." 

Lansing  took  his  outstretched  hand  in  both  of  his. 
"There  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  tell  you  what  you 
have  done  for  me,  doctor,"  he  said. 

89 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Thayer  regarded  him  keenly.  "Thought  I  did  it  for 
her,"  he  remarked. 

Instantly  Lansing's  face  turned  red  -  hot.  Thayer 
clasped  the  young  man's  hands  and  shook  them  till 
they  ached. 

"You're  all  right,  my  boy  —  you're  all  right!"  he 
said,  heartily;  and  was  gone  down  the  stairs,  two  at  a 
jump — a  rather  lively  proceeding  for  the  famous  and 
dignified  Courtney  Thayer. 

Lansing  turned  and  entered  rooms  5, and  6.  His 
patient  was  standing  by  the  curtained  window.  "Do 
you  want  to  know  your  fate?"  he  asked,  lightly. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  out  of  her  lovely  eyes; 
the  quaint,  listening  expression  in  her  face  still  remained, 
but  she  saiv  him,  this  time. 

"Am  I  well?"  she  asked,  calmly. 

"Yes;  .  .  .  perfectly." 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  her  slender  hands  folded, 
her  eyes  on  him. 

"And  now,"  she  asked,  "what  am  I  to  do?" 

He  understood,  and  bent  his  head.  He  had  an  an 
swer  ready,  trembling  on  his  lips;  but  a  horror  of  pre 
suming  on  her  gratitude  kept  him  silent. 

"Am  I  to  go  back  ...  to  him?"  she  said,  faintly. 

"God  forbid!"  he  blurted  out.  With  all  his  keen 
eyesight,  how  could  he  fail  to  see  the  adoration  in  her 
eyes,  on  her  mute  lips'  quivering  curve,  in  every  line 
of  her  body?  But  the  brutality  of  asking  for  that 
which  her  gratitude  might  not  withhold  froze  him.  It 
was  no  use;  he  could  not  speak. 

"Then — what?  Tell  me;  I  will  do  it,"  she  said,  in  a 
desolate  voice.  "Of  course  I  cannot  stay  here  now." 

90 


THE    SHINING    BAND 

Something  in  his  haggard  face  set  her  heart  beating 
heavily;  then  for  a  moment  her  heart  seemed  to  stop. 
She  covered  her  eyes  with  a  swift  gesture. 

"Is  it  pain?"  he  asked,  quickly.  "Let  me  see  your 
eyes!"  Her  hands  covered  them.  He  came  to  her; 
she  stood  up,  and  he  drew  her  fingers  from  her  eyes 
and  looked  into  them  steadily.  But  what  he  saw  there 
he  alone  knows;  for  he  bent  closer,  shaking  in  every 
limb;  and  both  her  arms  crept  to  his  shoulders  and  her 
clasped  hands  tightened  around  his  neck. 

Which  was  doubtless  an  involuntary  muscular  affec 
tion  incident  on  successful  operations  for  lamellar  or 
zonular  cataract. 

That  day  they  opened  the  steel  box.  She  understood 
little  of  what  he  read  to  her ;  presently  he  stopped  abrupt 
ly  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  remained  staring, 
reading  on  and  on  in  absorbed  silence. 

Content,  serene,  numbed  with  her  happiness,  she 
watched  him  sleepily. 

He  muttered  under  his  breath:  "Sprowl!  What  a 
fool!  What  a  cheap  fool!  And  yet  not  one  among  us 
even  suspected  him  of  that!" 

After  a  long  time  he  looked  up  at  the  girl,  blankly  at 
first,  and  with  a  grimace  of  disgust.  "You  see,"  he 
said,  and  gave  a  curious  laugh — "you  see  that — that 
you  own  all  this  land  of  ours — as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

After  a  long  explanation  she  partly  understood,  and 
laughed  outright,  a  clear  child's  laugh  without  a  trace 
of  that  sad  undertone  he  knew  so  well. 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  take  it  away  from  your 
club — are  we?"  she  asked. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"No,"  he  said;  "let  the  club  have  the  land — your 
land!  What  do  we  care?  We  will  never  come  here 
again!"  He  sat  a  moment,  thinking,  then  sprang  up. 
"We  will  go  to  New  York  to-morrow,"  he  said;  "and 
I'll  just  step  out  and  say  good-bye  to  Sprowl — I  think  he 
and  his  wife  are  also  going  to-morrow;  I  think  they're 
going  to  Europe,  to  live!  I'm  sure  they  are;  and  that 
they  will  never  come  back." 

And,  curiously  enough,  that  is  exactly  what  they 
did;  and  they  are  there  yet.  And  their  establishment 
in  the  American  colony  is  the  headquarters  for  all 
nobility  in  exile,  including  the  chivalrous  Orleans. 

Which  is  one  sort  of  justice — the  Lansing  sort;  and, 
anyway,  Coursay  survived  and  married  an  actress  a 
year  later.  And  the  club  still  remains  in  undisturbed 
possession  of  Eileen  Lansing's  land;  and  Major  Brent 
is  now  its  president. 

As  for  Munn,  he  has  permanently  retired  to  Munn- 
ville,  Maine,  where,  it  is  reported,  he  has  cured  several 
worthy  and  wealthy  people  by  the  simple  process  of 
prayer. 


ONE   MAN    IN  A  MILLION 


ONE    MAN    IN   A   MILLION 


DO  you  desire  me  to  marry  him?"   asked  Miss 
Castle,  quietly. 

"Let  me  finish,"  said  her  uncle.  "Jane,"  he  added, 
turning  on  his  sister,  "if  you  could  avoid  sneezing  for 
a  few  moments,  I  should  be  indebted  to  you." 

Miss  Jane  Garcide,  a  sallow  lady  of  forty,  who  suf 
fered  with  colds  all  winter  and  hay-fever  all  summer, 
meekly  left  the  room. 

Miss  Castle  herself  leaned  on  the  piano,  tearing  the 
pink  petals  from  a  half-withered  rose,  while  her  guar 
dian,  the  Hon.  John  Garcide,  finished  what  he  had  to 
say  and  pulled  out  his  cigar-case  with  decision. 

"I  have  only  to  add,"  he  said,  "that  James  J.  Craw 
ford  is  one  man  in  a  million." 

Her  youthful  adoration  of  Garcide  had  changed  within 
a  few  years  to  a  sweet-tempered  indifference.  He  was 
aware  of  this;  he  was  anxious  to  learn  whether  the 
change  had  also  affected  her  inherited  passion  for  truth 
fulness. 

"Do  you  remember  a  promise  you  once  made?"  he 
inquired,  lighting  his  cigar  with  care. 

95 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Yes,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"When  was  it?" 

"On  my  tenth  birthday." 

He  looked  out  of  the  heavily  curtained  window. 

"  Of  course  you  could  not  be  held  to  such  a  promise," 
he  remarked. 

"There  is  no  need  to  hold  me  to  it,"  she  answered, 
flushing  up. 

Her  delicate  sense  of  honor  amused  him;  he  lay  back 
in  his  arm-chair,  enjoying  his  cigar. 

"It  is  curious,"  he  said,  "that  you  cannot  recall 
meeting  Mr.  Crawford  last  winter. 

"A  girl  has  an  opportunity  to  forget  hundreds  of 
faces  after  her  first  season,"  she  said. 

There  was  another  pause;  then  Garcide  went  on:  "I 
am  going  to  ask  you  to  marry  him." 

Her  face  paled  a  trifle;  she  bent  her  head  in  acquies 
cence.  Garcide  smiled.  It  had  always  been  that  way 
with  the  Castles.  Their  word,  once  given,  ended  all  mat 
ters.  And  now  Garcide  was  gratified  to  learn  the  value 
of  a  promise  made  by  a  child  of  ten. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Garcide,  plaintively,  "why  you 
never  open  your  heart  to  me,  Hilda?" 

"I  wonder,  too,"  she  said;  "my  father  did." 

Garcide  turned  his  flushed  face  to  the  window. 

Years  before,  when  the  firm  of  Garcide  &  Castle  went 
to  pieces,  Peter  Castle  stood  by  the  wreck  to  the  end, 
patching  it  with  his  last  dollar.  But  the  wreck  broke 
up,  and  he  drifted  piteously  with  the  ddbris  until  a 
kindly  current  carried  him  into  the  last  harbor  of  all 
— the  port  of  human  derelicts. 

Garcide,  however,  contrived  to  cling  to  some  valu- 

96 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

able  flotsam  and  paddle  into  calm  water,  and  an 
chor. 

After  a  few  years  he  built  a  handsome  house  above 
Fiftieth  Street;  after  a  few  more  years  he  built  a  new 
wing  for  Saint  Berold's  Hospital;  and  after  a  few  more 
years  he  did  other  things  equally  edifying,  but  which, 
if  mentioned,  might  identify  him. 

Church  work  had  always  interested  him.  As  a 
speculation  in  moral  obligation,  he  adopted  Peter  Cas 
tle's  orphan,  who  turned  to  him  in  a  passion  of  grati 
tude  and  blind  devotion.  And  as  she  bade  fair  to  rival 
her  dead  mother  in  beauty,  and  as  rich  men  marry 
beauty  when  it  is  in  the  market,  the  Hon.  John  Garcide 
decided  to  control  the  child's  future.  A  promise  at 
ten  years  is  quickly  made,  but  he  had  never  forgotten 
it,  and  she  could  not  forget. 

And  now  Garcide  needed  her  as  he  needed  mercy 
from  Ophir  Steel,  which  was  slowly  crushing  his  own 
steel  syndicate  to  powder. 

The  struggle  between  Steel  Plank  and  James  J. 
Crawford's  Ophir  Steel  is  historical.  The  pure  love  of 
fighting  was  in  Crawford ;  he  fought  Garcide  to  a  stand 
still  and  then  kicked  him,  filling  Garcide  with  a  mixture 
of  terror  and  painful  admiration. 

But  sheer  luck  caught  at  Garcide's  coat-tails  and 
hung  there.  Crawford,  prowling  in  the  purlieus  of 
society,  had  seen  Miss  Castle. 

The  next  day  Crawford  came  into  Garcide's  office 
and  accepted  a  chair  with  such  a  humble  and  uneasy 
smile  that  Garcide  mistook  his  conciliatory  de 
meanor  and  attempted  to  bully  him.  But  when  he 
found  out  what  Crawford  wanted,  he  nearly  fainted 
7  97 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

in  an  attempt  to  conceal  his  astonishment  and  de 
light. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  buy  you  off  with  an  innocent 
child?"  he  said,  lashing  himself  into  a  good  imitation 
of  an  insulted  gentleman. 

Crawford  looked  out  of  the  window,  then  rose  and 
walked  towards  the  door." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  bribe  me?"  shouted  Garcide 
after  him.  Crawford  hesitated. 

"Come  back  here,"  said  Garcide,  firmly;  "I  want 
you  to  explain  yourself." 

"I  can't,"  muttered  Crawford. 

"Well — try,  anyway,"  said  Garcide,  more  amiably. 

And  now  this  was  the  result  of  that  explanation,  at 
least  one  of  the  results;  and  Miss  Castle  had  promised 
to  wed  a  gentleman  in  Ophir  Steel  named  Crawford,  at 
the  convenience  of  the  Hon.  John  Garcide. 

The  early  morning  sunshine  fell  across  the  rugs  in  the 
music-room,  filling  the  gloom  with  golden  lights.  It 
touched  a  strand  of  hair  on  Miss  Castle's  bent 
head. 

"You'll  like  him,"  said  Garcide,  guiltily. 

Her  hand  hung  heavily  on  the  piano  keys. 

"You  have  no  other  man  in  mind?"  he  asked. 

"No,  ...  no  man." 

Garcide  chewed  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"Crawford's  a  bashful  man.  Don't  make  it  hard 
for  him,"  he  said. 

She  swung  around  on  the  gilded  music-stool,  one  white 
hand  lying  among  the  ivory  keys. 

"I  shall  spare  us  both,"  she  said;  "I  shall  tell  him 
that  it  is  settled." 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

Garcide  rose;  she  received  his  caress  with  composure. 
He  made  another  grateful  peck  at  her  chin. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  quiet  week  or  two  in  the  coun 
try?"  he  suggested,  cheerfully,  "Go  up  to  the  Saga 
more  Club;  Jane  will  go  with  you.  You  can  have  the 
whole  place  to  yourselves.  You  always  liked  nature 
and — er — all  that,  eh?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  indifferently. 

That  afternoon  the  Hon.  John  Garcide  sent  a  mes 
senger  to  James  J.  Crawford  with  the  following  letter: 

"Mv  DEAR  CRAWFORD, — Your  manly  and  straightforward  re 
quest  for  permission  to  address  my  ward,  Miss  Castle,  has  pro 
foundly  touched  me. 

"  I  have  considered  the  matter,  I  may  say  earnestly  considered 
it. 

"Honor  and  the  sacred  duties  of  guardianship  forbid  that  I 
should  interfere  in  any  way  with  my  dear  child's  happiness  if 
she  desires  to  place  it  in  your  keeping.  On  the  other  hand, 
honor  and  decency  prevent  me  from  attempting  to  influence 
her  to  any  decision  which  might  prove  acceptable  to  myself. 

' '  I  can  therefore  only  grant  you  the  permission  you  desire 
to  address  my  ward.  The  rest  lies  with  a  propitious  Providence. 
"  Cordially  yours,  JOHN  GARCIDE. 

"P.  S. — My  sister,  Miss  Garcide,  and  Miss  Castle  are  going  to 
the  Sagamore  Club  to-night.  I'll  take  you  up  there  whenever 
you  can  get  away." 

To  which  came  answer  by  messenger: 

"Hon.  John  Garcide: 

"My  DEAR  GARCIDE,  —  Can't  go  for  two  weeks.  My  fool 
nephew  Jim  is  on  his  vacation,  and  I  don't  know  where  he  is 
prowling.  Hastily  yours, 

"  JAMES  J.  CRAWFORD. 

"P.  S. — There's  a  director's  meeting  at  three.  Come  down 
atnd  we'll  settle  all  quarrels." 

To  this  the  Hon.   John   Garcide  telegraphed:   "All 

99 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

right,"  and  hurriedly  prepared  to  escort  his  sister  and 
Miss  Castle  to  the  mid-day  express  for  Sagamore  Hills. 


II 

Miss  Castle  usually  rose  with  the  robins,  when  there 
were  any  in  the  neighborhood.  There  were  plenty  on 
the  lawn  around  the  Sagamore  Club  that  dewy  June 
morning,  chirping,  chirking,  trilling,  repeating  their 
endless  arias  from  tree  and  gate-post.  And  through 
the  outcry  of  the  robins,  the  dry  cackle  of  the  purple 
grackles,  and  the  cat -bird's  whine  floated  earthward 
the  melody  of  the  golden  orioles. 

Miss  Castle,  fresh  from  the  bath,  breakfasted  in  her 
own  rooms  with  an  appetite  that  astonished  her. 

She  was  a  wholesome,  fresh-skinned  girl,  with  a  superb 
body,  limbs  a  trifle  heavy  in  the  strict  classical  sense, 
straight -browed,  blue-eyed,  and  very  lovely  and  Greek. 

Pensively  she  ate  her  toast,  tossing  a  few  crumbs  at 
the  robins;  pensively  she  disposed  of  two  eggs,  a  trout, 
and  all  the  chocolate,  and  looked  into  the  pitcher  for 
more  cream. 

The  swelling  bird-music  only  intensified  the  deep, 
sweet  country  silence  which  brooded  just  beyond  the 
lawn's  wet  limits;  she  saw  the  flat  river  tumbling  in  the 
sunlight;  she  saw  the  sky  over  all,  its  blue  mystery  un 
troubled  by  a  cloud. 

"I  love  all  that,"  she  said,  dreamily,  to  her  maid  be 
hind  her.  "Never  mind  my  hair  now;  I  want  the  wind 
to  blow  it." 

The  happy  little  winds  of  June,  loitering  among  the 

100 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

lilacs,  heard;  and  they  came  and  blew  her  bright  hair 
across  her  eyes,  puff  after  puff  of  perfumed  balm,  and 
stirred  the  delicate  stuff  that  clung  to  her,  and  she  felt 
their  caress  on  her  bare  feet. 

"I  mean  to  go  and  wade  in  that  river,"  she  said  to 
her  maid.  "Dress  me  very  quickly." 

But  when  she  was  dressed  the  desire  for  childish 
things  had  passed  away,  and  she  raised  her  grave  eyes 
to  the  reflected  eyes  in  the  mirror,  studying  them  in 
silence. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  aloud,  "I  am  young  enough  to 
have  found  happiness — if  they  had  let  me.  .  .  .  The  sun 
shine  is  full  of  it,  out -doors.  ...  I  could  have  found  it. 
...  I  was  not  meant  for  men.  .  .  .  Still  ...  it  is  all  in 
the  future  yet.  I  will  learn  not  to  be  afraid." 

She  made  a  little  effort  to  smile  at  herself  in  the 
mirror,  but  her  courage  could  not  carry  her  as  far  as 
that.  So,  with  a  quick,  quaint  gesture  of  adieu,  she 
turned  and  walked  rapidly  out  into  the  hallway. 

Miss  Garcide  was  in  bed,  sneezing  patiently.  "I 
won't  be  out  for  weeks,"  said  the  poor  lady,  "so  you 
will  have  to  amuse  yourself  alone." 

Miss  Castle  kissed  her  and  went  away  lightly  down 
the  polished  stairs  to  the  great  hall. 

The  steward  came  up  to  wish  her  good-morning,  and 
to  place  the  resources  of  the  club  at  her  disposal. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  hesitating  at  the  veranda 
door;  "I  think  a  sun-bath  is  all  I  care  for.  You  may 
hang  a  hammock  under  the  maples,  if  you  will.  I  sup 
pose,"  she  added,  "that  I  am  quite  alone  at  the  club?" 

"One  gentleman  arrived  this  morning,"  said  the 
steward — "Mr.  Crawford." 

101 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

She  looked  back,  poised  lightly  in  the  door-way 
through  which  the  morning  sunshine  poured.  All  the 
color  had  left  her  face.  "Mr.  Crawford,"  she  said,  in 
a  dull  voice. 

"He  has  gone  out  after  trout,"  continued  the  stew 
ard,  briskly;  "he  is  a  rare  rod,  ma'am,  is  Mr.  Crawford. 
He  caught  the  eight -pound  fish — perhaps  you  noticed 
it  on  the  panel  in  the  billiard-room." 

Miss  Castle  came  into  the  hall  again,  and  stepped 
over  to  the  register.  Under  her  signature,  "  Miss  Castle 
and  maid,"  she  saw  "J.  Crawford,  New  York."  The 
ink  was  still  blue  and  faint. 

She  turned  and  walked  out  into  the  sunshine. 

The  future  was  no  longer  a  gray,  menacing  future; 
it  had  become  suddenly  the  terrifying  present,  and  its 
shadow  fell  sharply  around  her  in  the  sunshine. 

Now  all  the  courage  of  her  race  must  be  summoned, 
and  must  respond  to  the  summons.  The  end  of  all 
was  at  hand;  but  when  had  a  Castle  ever  flinched  at 
the  face  of  fate  under  any  mask? 

She  raised  her  resolute  head;  her  eyes  matched  the 
sky — clear,  unclouded,  fathomless. 

In  hours  of  deep  distress  the  sound  of  her  own  voice 
had  always  helped  her  to  endure;  and  now,  as  she  walk 
ed  across  the  lawn  bareheaded,  she  told  herself  not  to 
grieve  over  a  just  debt  to  be  paid,  not  to  quail  because 
life  held  for  her  nothing  of  what  she  had  dreamed. 

If  there  was  a  tremor  now  and  then  in  her  low  voice, 
none  but  the  robins  heard  it ;  if  she  lay  flung  face  down 
ward  in  the  grasses,  under  the  screen  of  alders  by  the 
water,  there  was  no  one  but  the  striped  chipmunk  to 
jeer  and  mock. 

102 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

"Now  listen,  you  silly  girl,"  she  whispered;  "he  can 
not  take  away  the  sky  and  the  sunshine  from  you!  He 
cannot  blind  and  deafen  you,  silly!  Cry  if  you  must, 
you  little  coward! — you  will  marry  him  all  the  same." 

Suddenly  sitting  up,  alert,  she  heard  something  sing 
ing.  It  was  the  river  flowing  close  beside  her. 

She  pushed  away  the  screen  of  leaves  and  stretched 
out  full  length,  looking  down  into  the  water. 

A  trout  lay  there;  his  eyes  were  shining  with  an  opal 
tint,  his  scarlet  spots  blazed  like  jewels. 

And  as  she  lay  there,  her  bright  hair  tumbled  about 
her  face,  she  heard,  above  the  river's  monotone,  a  sharp, 
whiplike  sound — swis-s-sh — and  a  silvery  thread  flashed 
out  across  her  vision.  It  was  a  fishing-line  and  leader, 
and  the  fisherman  who  had  cast  it  was  standing  fifty 
feet  away  up-stream,  hip-deep  in  the  sunlit  water. 

Swish!  swish!  and  the  long  line  flew  back,  straightened 
far  behind  him,  and  again  lengthened  out,  the  single 
yellow-and-gilt  fly  settling  on  the  water  just  above  the 
motionless  trout,  who  simply  backed  off  down-stream. 

But  there  were  further  troubles  for  the  optimistic 
angler;  a  tough  alder  stem,  just  under  water,  became 
entangled  in  the  line;  the  fisherman  gave  a  cautious  jerk; 
the  hook  sank  into  the  water-soaked  wood,  buried  to 
the  barb. 

"Oh,  the  deuce!"  said  the  fisherman,  calmly. 

Before  she  could  realize  what  he  was  about,  he  had 
waded  across  the  shallows  and  seized  the  alder  branch. 
A  dash  of  water  showered  her  as  he  shook  the  hook 
free;  she  stood  up  with  an  involuntary  gasp  and  met 
the  astonished  eyes  of  the  fisherman. 

He  was  a  tall,  sunburned  young  fellow,  with  powerful 

103 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

shoulders  and  an  easy,  free-limbed  carriage;  he  was 
also  soaking  wet  and  streaked  with  mud. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "I  never  saw  you!  Aw- 
f'lly  sorry;  hope  I  haven't  spoiled  your  sport — but  I 
have.  You  were  fishing,  of  course?" 

"No,  I  was  only  looking,"  she  said.  "Of  course  I've 
spoiled  your  sport." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said,  laughing;  "that  alder  twig 
did  for  me." 

"But  there  was  a  trout  lying  there — I  saw  him;  and 
the  trout  saw  me,  so  of  course  he  wouldn't  rise  to  your 
cast.  And  I'm  exceedingly  sorry,"  she  ended,  smiling 
in  spite  of  herself. 

Her  hair  was  badly  rumpled;  she  had  been  crying, 
and  he  could  see  it,  but  he  had  never  looked  upon  such 
tear-stained,  smiling,  and  dishevelled  loveliness. 

As  he  looked  and  marvelled,  her  smile  died  out;  it 
came  to  her  with  a  distinct  shock  that  this  water-logged 
specimen  of  sun -tanned  manhood  must  be  Crawford. 

"Are  you?"  she  said,  scarcely  aware  that  she  spoke. 

"What?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"Mr.  Crawford?" 

"Why,  yes — and,  of  course,  you  are  Miss  Castle,"  he 
replied,  smiling  easily.  "  I  saw  your  name  in  the  guest- 
book  this  morning.  Awf'lly  glad  you  came,  Miss  Cas 
tle;  hope  you'll  let  me  show  you  where  the  big  fellows 
lie." 

"You  mean  the  fish,"  she  said,  with  composure. 

The  shock  of  suddenly  realizing  that  this  man  was 
the  man  she  had  to  marry  confused  her;  she  made  an 
effort  to  get  things  back  into  proper  perspective,  for  the 
river  was  swimming  before  her  eyes,  and  in  her  ears 

104 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

rang  a  strangely  pleasant  voice — Crawford's — saying  all 
sorts  of  good-humored  things,  which  she  heard  but 
scarcely  comprehended. 

Instinctively  she  raised  her  hands  to  touch  her  dis 
ordered  hair;  she  stood  there  naively  twisting  it  into 
shape  again,  her  eyes  constantly  reverting  to  the  sun 
tanned  face  before  her. 

"And  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  guardian, 
Mr.  Garcide,  very  slightly — in  a  business  way,"  he  was 
saying,  politely. 

"Ophir  Steel,"  she  said. 

He  laughed. 

"Oh,  we  are  making  a  great  battle,"  he  said.  "I'm 
only  hoping  we  may  come  to  an  understanding  with 
Mr.  Garcide." 

"I  thought  you  had  already  come  to  an  understand 
ing,"  she  observed,  calmly. 

"Have  we?  I  hope  so;  I  had  not  heard  that,"  he 
said,  quickly.  "How  did  you  hear?" 

Without  warning  she  flushed  scarlet  to  her  neck ;  and 
she  was  as  amazed  as  he  at  the  surging  color  staining 
her  white  skin. 

She  could  not  endure  that — she  could  not  face  him 
— so  she  bent  her  head  a  little  in  recognition  of  his 
presence  and  stepped  past  him,  out  along  the  river- 
bank. 

He  looked  after  her,  wondering  what  he  could  have 
said. 

She  wondered,  too,  and  her  wonder  grew  that  instead 
of  self-pity,  repugnance,  and  deep  dread,  she  should  feel 
such  a  divine  relief  from  the  terror  that  had  possessed 
her. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Now  at  least  she  knew  the  worst.  This  was  the 
man! 

She  strove  to  place  him,  to  recall  his  face.  She  could 
not.  All  along  she  had  pictured  Crawford  as  an  older 
man.  And  this  broad-shouldered,  tanned  young  fellow 
was  Crawford,  after  all!  Where  could  her  eyes  have 
been?  How  absurd  that  her  indifference  should  have 
so  utterly  blinded  her! 

She  stood  a  moment  on  the  lawn,  closing  her  eyes. 

Oh,  now  she  had  no  difficulty  in  recalling  his  face — 
in  fact  the  difficulty  was  to  shut  it  out,  for  it  was  before 
her  eyes,  open  or  shut  —  it  was  before  her  when  she 
entered  her  bedroom  and  sank  into  a  cushioned  chair 
by  the  breezy  window.  And  she  took  her  burning 
cheeks  in  both  hands  and  rested  her  elbows  on  her 
knees. 

Truly  terror  had  fled.  It  shamed  her  to  find  herself 
thanking  God  that  her  fate  was  to  lie  in  the  keeping  of 
this  young  man.  Yet  it  was  natural,  too,  for  the  child 
had  nigh  died  of  horror,  though  the  courage  of  the  Cas 
tles  had  held  her  head  high  in  the  presence  of  the  in 
evitable.  And  now  suddenly  into  her  gray  and  hope 
less  future,  peopled  by  the  phantoms  of  an  old  man, 
stepped  a  living,  smiling  young  fellow,  with  gentle  man 
ners  and  honest  speech,  and  a  quick  courtesy  which 
there  was  no  mistaking. 

She  had  no  mother — nobody  to  talk  to — so  she  had 
long  ago  made  a  confidante  of  her  own  reflection  in  the 
looking-glass.  And  to  the  mirror  she  now  went,  meet 
ing  the  reflected  eyes  shyly,  yet  smiling  with  friendly 
sympathy : 

"Silly!  to  frighten  yourself!  It  is  all  over  now. 

106 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

He's  young  and  tall  and  sunburned.  I  don't  think  he 
knows  a  great  deal — but  don't  be  frightened,  he  is  not 
a  bit  dreadful,  .  .  .  only  ...  it  is  a  pity,  .  .  .  but  I  sup 
pose  he  was  in  love  with  me,  .  .  .  and,  after  all,  it  doesn't 
matter,  .  .  .  only  I  am  .  .  .  sorry  .  .  .  for  him.  ...  If 
he  had  only  cared  for  a  girl  who  could  love  him!  ...  I 
don't  suppose  I  could,  .  .  .  ever!  .  .  .  But  I  will  be  very 
kind  to  him,  ...  to  make  up." 


Ill 

She  saw  him  every  day;  she  dined  at  the  club  table 
now. 

Miss  Garcide's  hay-fever  increased  with  the  ripening 
summer,  and  she  lay  in  her  room  with  all  the  windows 
closed,  sneezing  and  reading  Anthony  Trollope. 

When  Miss  Castle  told  her  that  Mr.  Crawford  was  a 
guest  at  the  club,  Miss  Garcide  wept  over  her  for  an 
hour. 

"I  feel  like  weeping,  too,"  said  Miss  Castle,  trem 
ulously — "but  not  over  myself." 

"Dot  over  hib?"  inquired  Miss  Garcide. 

"Yes,  over  him.  He  ought  to  marry  a  girl  who  could 
fall  in  love  with  him." 

Meanwhile  Crawford  was  dining  every  evening  with 
her  at  the  great  club  table,  telling  her  of  the  day's  sport, 
and  how  a  black  bear  had  come  splashing  across  the 
shallows  within  a  few  rods  of  where  he  stood  fishing, 
and  how  the  deer  had  increased,  and  were  even  nib 
bling  the  succulent  green  stalks  in  the  kitchen  garden 
after  nightfall. 

107 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

During  the  day  she  found  herself  looking  forward  to 
his  return  and  his  jolly,  spirited  stories,  always  gay  and 
humorous,  and  never  tiresome,  technical,  nor  conceited, 
although  for  three  years  he  had  held  the  club  cup  for 
the  best  fish  taken  on  Sagamore  water. 

She  took  sun-baths  in  her  hammock ;  she  read  novels ; 
she  spent  hours  in  reverie,  blue  eyes  skyward,  arms 
under  her  head,  swayed  in  her  hammock  by  the  delicious 
winds  of  a  perfect  June. 

All  her  composure  and  common-sense  had  returned. 
She  began  to  experience  a  certain  feeling  of  responsi 
bility  for  Crawford — a  feeling  almost  maternal. 

"He's  so  amusingly  shy  about  speaking,"  she  told 
Miss  Garcide;  "I  suppose  he's  anxious  and  bashful.  I 
think  I'll  tell  him  that  it  is  all  arranged.  Besides,  I 
promised  Mr.  Garcide  to  speak.  I  don't  see  why  I 
don't;  I'm  not  a  bit  embarrassed." 

But  the  days  went  shining  by,  and  a  new  week  dawn 
ed,  and  Miss  Castle  had  not  taken  pity  upon  her  tongue- 
tied  lover. 

"Oh,  this  is  simply  dreadful,"  she  argued  with  her 
self.  "Besides,  I  want  to  know  how  soon  the  man 
expects  to  marry  me.  I've  a  few  things  to  purchase, 
thank  you,  and  if  he  thinks  a  trousseau  is  thrown  to 
gether  in  a  day,  he's  a — a  man!" 

That  evening  she  determined  to  fulfil  her  promise  to 
Garcide  as  scrupulously  as  she  kept  a^  her  promises. 

She  wore  white  at  dinner,  with  a  great  bunch  of  wild 
iris  that  Crawford  had  brought  her.  Towards  the  end 
of  the  dinner  she  began  to  be  frightened,  but  it  was  the 
instinct  of  the  Castles  to  fight  fear  and  overcome  it. 

"I'm  going  to  walk  down  to  the  little  foot-bridge," 

108 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

she  said,  steadily,  examining  the  coffee  in  her  tiny  cup; 
"and  if  you  will  stroll  down  with  your  pipe,  I  ...  I 
will  tell  you  something." 

"That  will  be  very  jolly,"  he  said.  "There's  a  full 
moon ;  I  mean  to  have  a  try  at  a  thumping  big  fish  in 
the  pool  above." 

She  nodded,  and  he  rose  and  attended  her  to  the  door. 

Then  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  called  for  a  telegram 
blank. 

This  is  what  he  wrote: 

"  James  J.  Crawford,  318  New  Broad  Street,  N.Y. : 

"  I  am  at  the  Sagamore.     When  do  you  want  me  to  return? 

"JAMES  H.  CRAWFORD." 

The  servant  took  the  bit  of  yellow  paper.  Crawford 
lay  back  smoking  and  thinking  of  trout  and  forests  and 
blue  skies  and  blue  eyes  that  he  should  miss  very,  very 
soon. 

Meanwhile  the  possessor  of  the  blue  eyes  was  standing 
on  the  little  foot-bridge  that  crossed  the  water  below 
the  lawn. 

A  faint  freshness  came  upward  to  her  from  the  water, 
cooling  her  face.  She  looked  down  into  that  sparkling 
dusk  which  hangs  over  woodland  rivers,  and  she  saw 
the  ripples,  all  silvered,  flowing  under  the  moon,  and  the 
wild-cherry  blossoms  trembling  and  quivering  with  the 
gray  wings  of  moths. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  aloud — "surely  there  is  some 
thing  in  the  world  besides  men.  I  love  this — all  of  it! 
I  do  indeed.  I  could  find  happiness  here;  I  do  not 
think  I  was  made  for  men." 

For  a  long  while  she  stood,  bending  down  towards 

109 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

the  water,  her  whole  body  saturated  with  the  perfume 
from  the  fringed  milkweed.  Then  she  raised  her  deli 
cate  nose  a  trifle,  sniffing  at  the  air,  which  suddenly  be 
came  faintly  spiced  with  tobacco  smoke. 

Where  did  the  smoke  come  from?  She  turned  in 
stinctively.  On  a  rock  up-stream  stood  young  Crawford, 
smoking  peacefully,  and  casting  a  white  fly  into  the 
dusky  water.  Swish !  the  silk  line  whistled  out  into  the 
dusk. 

After  a  few  moments'  casting,  she  saw  him  step  ashore 
and  saunter  towards  the  bridge,  where  she  was  stand 
ing;  then  his  step  jarred  the  structure  and  he  came  up, 
cap  in  one  hand,  rod  in  the  other. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  might  like  to  try  a  cast,"  he 
said,  pleasantly.  "There's  a  good-sized  fish  in  the  pool 
above;  I  raised  him  twice.  He'll  scale  close  to  five 
pounds,  I  fancy." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Castle;  "that  is  very  generous 
of  you,  because  you  are  deliberately  sacrificing  the  club 
loving-cup  if  I  catch  that  fish." 

He  said,  laughing:  "I've  held  the  cup  before.  Try 
it,  Miss  Castle;  that  is  a  five-pound  fish,  and  the  record 
this  spring  is  four  and  a  half." 

She  took  the  rod;  he  went  first  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  so  that  he  could  steady  her  across  the  stones  and 
out  into  the  dusk. 

"My  skirts  are  soaked  with  the  dew,  anyway,"  she 
said.  "I  don't  mind  a  wetting." 

He  unslung  his  landing-net  and  waited  ready;  she 
sent  the  line  whirling  into  the  darkness. 

"To  the  right,"  he  said. 

For  ten  minutes  she  stood  there  casting  in  silence. 

no 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

Once  a  splash  in  the  shadows  set  his  nerves  quivering, 
but  it  was  only  a  musk-rat. 

"By-the-way,"  she  said,  quietly,  over  her  shoulder, 
"I  know  why  you  and  I  have  met  here." 

And  as  Crawford  said  nothing  she  reeled  in  her  line, 
and  held  out  her  hand  to  him  as  a  signal  that  she  wished 
to  come  ashore. 

He  aided  her,  taking  the  rod  and  guiding  her  care 
fully  across  the  dusky  stepping-stones  to  the  bank. 

She  shook  out  her  damp  skirts,  then  raised  her  face, 
which  had  grown  a  trifle  pale. 

"I  will  marry  you,  Mr.  Crawford,"  she  said,  bravely, 
— "and  I  hope  you  will  make  me  love  you.  Mr.  Gar- 
cide  wishes  it.  ...  I  understand  .  .  .  that  you  wish  it. 
You  must  not  feel  embarrassed,  .  .  .  nor  let  me  feel 
embarrassed.  Come  and  talk  it  over.  Shall  we?" 

There  was  a  rustic  seat  on  the  river-bank;  she  sat 
down  in  one  corner. 

His  face  was  in  shadow;  he  had  dropped  his  rod  and 
landing-net  abruptly.  And  now  he  took  an  uncertain 
step  towards  her  and  sat  down  at  her  side. 

"  I  want  you  to  make  me  love  you,"  she  said,  frankly; 
"I  hope  you  will;  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  help  you.  But 
— unless  I  do — will  you  remember  that  ? — I  do  not  love 
you."  As  he  was  silent,  she  went  on:  "Take  me  as  a 
comrade;  I  will  go  where  you  wish.  I  am  really  a  good 
comrade;  I  can  do  what  men  do.  You  shall  see!  It 
will  be  pleasant,  I  think." 

After  a  little  while  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice  which  was 
not  perfectly  steady :  "Miss  Castle,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
something  which  you  must  know.  I  do  not  believe  that 
Mr.  Garcide  has  authorized  me  to  offer  myself  to  you." 

in 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"He  told  me  that  he  desired  it,"  she  said.  "That 
is  why  he  brought  us  together.  And  he  also  said,"  she 
added,  hastily,  "that  you  were  somewhat  bashful.  So 
I  thought  it  best  to  make  it  easy  for  us  both.  I  hope  I 
have." 

Crawford  sat  motionless  for  a  long  while.  At  last 
he  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  leaning  forward  and 
looking  into  her  face. 

"I've  simply  got  to  be  honest  with  you,"  he  said; 
"I  know  there  is  a  mistake." 

"No,  there  is  no  mistake,"  she  said,  bending  her 
head  and  looking  him  in  the  eyes — "unless  you  have 
made  the  mistake — unless,"  she  said,  quickly — "you 
do  not  want  me." 

"Want  you!"  he  stammered,  catching  fire  of  a  sud 
den — "want  you,  you  beautiful  child!  I  love  you  if 
ever  man  loved  on  earth!  Want  you?"  His  hand  fell 
heavily  on  hers,  and  closed.  For  an  instant  their  palms 
lay  close  together;  her  heart  almost  stopped;  then  a 
swift  flame  flew  to  her  face  and  she  struggled  to  with 
draw  her  fingers  twisted  in  his. 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "I 
do  not  love  you — I  warned  you!" 

He  said :  "You  must  love  me!  Can't  you  understand  ? 
You  made  me  love  you  —  you  made  me!  Listen  to 
me — it  is  all  a  mistake — but  it  is  too  late  now.  I  did 
not  dare  even  think  of  you — I  have  simply  got  to  tell 
you  the  truth — I  did  not  dare  think  of  you — I  must 
say  it — and  I  can't  understand  how  I  could  ever  have 
seen  you  and  not  loved  you.  But  when  you  spoke — 
when  I  touched  you — 

"Please,  please,"  she  said,  faintly,  "let  me  go!     It 

112 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

is  not  a  mistake;  I — I  am  glad  that  you  love  me;  I 
will  try  to  love  you.     I  want  to — I  believe  I  can — " 

"You  must!" 

"Yes,  ...  I  will.  .  .  .  Please  let  me  go!'? 

Breathless  and  crimson,  she  fell  back  into  her  corner, 
staring  at  him.  He  dropped  his  arm  on  the  back  of 
the  rustic  seat. 

Presently  he  laughed  uncertainly,  and  struck  his  fore 
head  with  his  open  hand. 

"It's  a  mistake,"  he  said;  "and  if  it  is  a  mistake, 
Heaven  help  the  other  man!" 

She  watched  him  with  curious  dismay.  Never  could 
she  have  believed  that  the  touch  of  a  man's  hand  could 
thrill  her;  never  had  she  imagined  that  the  words 
of  a  man  could  set  her  heart  leaping  to  meet  his 
stammered  vows.  A  new  shame  set  her  very  limbs 
quaking  as  she  strove  to  rise.  The  distress  in  her  eyes, 
the  new  fear,  the  pitiful  shyness,  called  to  him  for 
mercy. 

For  a  miracle  he  understood  the  mute  appeal,  and  he 
took  her  hand  in  his  quietly  and  bade  her  good-night, 
saying  he  would  stay  and  smoke  awhile. 

"Good-night,"  she  said;  "I  am  really  tired.  I  would 
rather  you  stayed  here.  Do  you  mind  ?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  shall  go  back  alone." 

He  watched  her  across  the  lawn.  When  she  had 
gone  half-way,  she  looked  back  and  saw  him  standing 
there  in  the  moonlight. 

And  that  night,  as  her  little  silver  hand-glass  reflected 
her  brilliant  cheeks,  she  veiled  her  face  in  her  bright  hair 
and  knelt  down  by  her  bedside, 
s  113 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

But  all  she  could  say  was,  "I  love  him — truly  I  love 
him!"  which  was  one  kind  of  prayer,  after  all. 


IV 

A  deep,  sweet  happiness  awoke  her  ere  the  earliest 
robin  chirped.  Never  since  the  first  pink  light  touched 
Eden  had  such  a  rosy  day  dawned  for  any  maid  on  earth. 

She  awoke  in  love;  her  enchanted  eyes  unclosed  on  a 
world  she  had  never  known. 

Unashamed,  she  held  out  her  arms  to  the  waking 
world  and  spoke  her  lover's  name  aloud.  Then  the 
young  blood  leaped  in  her,  and  her  eyes  were  like  stars 
after  a  rain. 

Oh,  she  must  hasten  now,  for  there  was  so  little  time 
to  live  in  the  world,  and  every  second  counted.  Healthy 
of  body,  wholesome  of  soul,  innocent  and  ardent  in  her 
new-born  happiness,  she  could  scarcely  endure  the  rush 
of  golden  moments  lost  in  an  impetuous  bath,  in  twist 
ing  up  her  bright  hair,  in  the  quick  knotting  of  a  ribbon, 
the  click  of  a  buckle  on  knee  and  shoe. 

Then,  as  she  slipped  down  the  stairs  into  the  dark 
ened  hall,  trepidation  seized  her,  for  she  heard  his  step. 

He  came  swinging  along  the  hallway;  she  stood  still, 
trembling.  He  came  up  quickly  and  took  her  hands; 
she  did  not  move;  his  arm  encircled  her  waist;  he  lifted 
her  head ;  it  lay  back  on  his  shoiilder,  and  her  eyes  met 
his. 

"All  day  together,"  he  was  saying;  and  her  soul 
leaped  to  meet  his  words,  but  she  could  not  speak. 

He  held  her  at  arms'-length,  laughing,  a  little  troubled. 

114 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

"Mystery  of  mysteries,"  he  said,  under  his  breath; 
"there  is  some  blessed  Heaven -directed  mistake  in  this. 
Is  there,  sweetheart?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

"And  if  there  was?" 

"Can  you  ask?" 

"Then  come  to  breakfast,  heart  of  my  heart! — the 
moments  are  flying  very  swiftly,  and  there  is  only  this 
day  left — until  to-morrow.  Listen!  I  hear  the  stew 
ard  moving  like  a  gray  rat  in  the  pantry.  Can  we  en 
dure  a  steward  in  Eden?" 

"Only  during  breakfast,"  she  said,  laughing.  "I 
smell  the  wheaten  flapjacks,  and,  oh,  I  am  famished!" 

There  have  been  other  breakfasts — Barmecide  break 
fasts  compared  with  their  first  crust  broken  in  love. 

But  they  ate — oh,  indeed,  they  ate  everything  before 
them,  from  flapjacks  to  the  piles  of  little,  crisp  trout. 
And  they  might  have  called  for  more,  but  there  came, 
on  tiptoe,  the  steward,  bowing,  presenting  a  telegram  on  a 
tray  of  silver ;  and  Crawford's  heart  stopped,  and  he  stared 
at  the  bit  of  paper  as  though  it  concealed  a  coiled  snake. 

She,  too,  suddenly  apprehensive,  sat  rigid,  the  smile 
dying  out  in  her  eyes;  and  when  he  finally  took  the 
envelope  and  tore  it  open,  she  shivered. 

"Crawford,  Sagamore  Club: 

"  Ophir  has  consolidated  with  Steel  Plank.  You  take  charge 
of  London  office.  Make  arrangements  to  catch  steamer  leaving 
a  week  from  to-morrow.  Garcide  and  I  will  be  at  Sagamore 
to-night.  JAMES  J.  CRAWFORD." 

He  sat  staring  at  the  telegram;  she,  vaguely  appre 
hensive  for  the  safety  of  this  new  happiness  of  hers, 
clasped  her  hands  tightly  in  her  lap  and  waited. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Any  answer,  sir?"  asked  the  steward. 
Crawford  took  the  offered  telegram  blank  and  mechan 
ically  wrote: 

"Instructions  received.  Will  expect  you  and  Garcide  to 
night.  JAMES  CRAWFORD." 

She  sat,  twisting  her  fingers  on  her  knees,  watching 
him  in  growing  apprehension.  The  steward  took  the 
telegram. 

Crawford  looked  at  her  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

They  rose  together,  instinctively,  and  walked  to  the 
porch. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "such  happiness 
was  too  perfect.  Magic  is  magic — it  never  lasts." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  faintly. 

He  picked  up  his  cap,  which  was  lying  on  a  chair. 

"Let's  get  away,  somewhere,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
mind  coming  with  me — alone?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  canoe  on  the  river-bank  below  the  lawn. 
He  took  a  paddle  and  setting-pole  from  the  veranda 
wall,  and  they  went  down  to  the  river,  side  by  side. 

Heedless  of  the  protests  of  the  scandalized  belted 
kingfishers,  they  embarked  on  Sagamore  Water. 

The  paddle  flashed  in  the  sunlight;  the  quick  river 
caught  the  blade,  the  spray  floated  shoreward. 


V 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  canoe,  heavily  festooned 
with  dripping  water-lilies,  moved  like  a  shadow  over 

116 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

the  shining  sands.  The  tall  hemlocks  walled  the  river 
with  palisades  unbroken;  the  calm  water  stretched 
away  into  the  forest's  sombre  depths,  barred  here  and 
there  by  dusty  sunbeams. 

Over  them,  in  the  highest  depths  of  the  unclouded 
blue,  towered  an  eagle,  suspended  from  mid-zenith. 
Under  them  the  shadow  of  their  craft  swept  the  yellow 
gravel. 

Knee  to  knee,  vis-a-vis,  wrapped  to  their  souls  in  the 
enchantment  of  each  other,  sat  the  entranced  voyagers. 
Their  rods  lay  idle  beside  them;  life  was  serious  just 
then  for  people  who  stood  on  the  threshold  of  separa 
tion. 

"I  simply  shall  depart  this  life  if  you  go  to-morrow," 
she  said,  looking  at  him. 

The  unfeigned  misery  in  his  face  made  her  smile 
adorably,  but  she  would  not  permit  him  to  touch 
her. 

"See  to  what  you  have  brought  me!"  she  said.  "I'm 
utterly  unable  to  live  without  you.  And  now  what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  me?" 

Her  eyes  were  very  tender.  He  caught  her  hand  and 
kissed  it,  and  laid  it  against  his  face. 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  said. 

"A  way?" 

"Shall  I  lead?     Would  you  follow?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  amused. 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  repeated.  "That  thread  of  a 
brook  leads  to  it." 

He  pointed  off  to  the  westward,  where  through  the 
forest  a  stream,  scarcely  wider  than  the  canoe,  flowed 
deep  and  silent  between  its  mounds  of  moss. 

117 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  picked  up  the  paddle  and  touched  the  blade  to 
the  water;  the  canoe  swung  westward. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  she  asked. 

But  the  canoe  was  already  in  the  narrow  stream,  and 
he  was  laughing  recklessly,  setting-pole  poised  to  swing 
round  the  short  turns. 

"If  we  turned  back  now,"  she  said,  "it  would  be 
sunset  before  we  reached  the  club." 

"What  do  we  care?"  he  laughed.     "Look!" 

Without  warning,  a  yellow  glory  broke  through  the 
trees,  and  the  canoe  shot  out  into  a  vast,  flat  country, 
drenched  with  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 

Blue  woods  belted  the  distance;  all  in  front  of  them 
was  deep,  moist  meadow-land,  carpeted  with  thickets  of 
wild  iris,  through  which  the  stream  wound  in  pools  of 
gold. 

The  beauty  of  it  held  her  speechless;  the  spell  was 
upon  him,  too,  and  he  sat  motionless,  the  water  drip 
ping  from  his  steel-tipped  setting-pole  in  drops  of  fire. 

There  was  a  figure  moving  in  the  distant  meadow; 
the  sun  glimmered  on  something  that  might  have  been 
a  long  reed  quivering. 

"An  old  friend  fishing  yonder,"  he  said,  quietly;  "I 
knew  he  would  be  there."  He  touched  her  and  pointed 
to  the  distant  figure.  "That  is  the  parson  of  Foxville," 
he  said.  "We  will  need  him  before  we  go  to  London." 

She  looked  across  the  purple  fields  of  iris.  Suddenly 
his  meaning  flashed  out  like  a  sunbeam. 

"Do — do  you  wish — that — now?"  she  faltered. 

He  picked  up  the  paddle;  she  caught  his  hand,  trem 
bling. 

"No,  no!" — she  whispered,  with  bent  head — "I  can- 

118 


ONE    MAN    IN    A    MILLION 

not;  don't  take  me  so — so  quickly.  Truly  we  must  be 
mad  to  think  of  it." 

He  held  the  paddle  poised;  after  a  while  her  hand 
slid  from  the  blade  and  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  The 
canoe  moved  on. 

"Oh,  we  are  quite  mad,"  she  said,  unsteadily. 

"  I  am  glad  we  are,"  he  said. 

The  mellow  dip!  dip!  of  the  paddle  woke  the  drows 
ing  red-winged  blackbirds  from  the  reeds;  the  gray 
snipe  wheeled  out  across  the  marsh  in  flickering  flight. 

The  aged  parson  of  Foxville,  intent  on  his  bobbing 
cork,  looked  up  in  mild  surprise  to  see  a  canoe,  heavily 
hung  with  water-lilies,  glide  into  his  pool  and  swing 
shoreward. 

The  parson  of  Foxville  was  a  very  old  man — almost 
too  old  to  fish  for  trout. 

Crawford  led  him  a  pace  aside,  leaving  Miss  Castle, 
somewhat  frightened,  knee-deep  in  the  purple  iris. 

Then  the  old  parson  came  toddling  to  her  and  took 
her  hand,  and  peered  at  her  with  his  aged  eyes,  saying, 
"You  are  quite  mad,  my  child,  and  very  lovely,  and 
very,  very  young.  So  I  think,  after  all,  you  would  be 
much  safer  if  you  were  married." 

Somebody  encircled  her  waist ;  she  turned  and  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  her  lover,  and  still  looking  at  him,  she 
laid  her  hands  in  his. 

A  wedding  amid  the  iris,  all  gray  with  the  hovering, 
misty  wings  of  moths — that  was  her  fate — with  the 
sky  a  canopy  of  fire  above  her,  and  the  curlew  calling 
through  the  kindling  dusk,  and  the  blue  processional 
of  the  woods  lining  the  corridors  of  the  coming  night. 

And  at  last  the  aged  parson  kissed  her  and  shook 

119 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

hands  with  her  husband  and  shambled  away  across  the 
meadows. 

Slowly  northward  through  the  dusk  stole  the  canoe 
once  more,  bearing  the  bride  of  an  hour,  her  head  on  her 
husband's  knees.  The  stars  came  out  to  watch  them; 
a  necklace  of  bubbles  trailed  in  the  paddle's  wake, 
stringing  away,  twinkling  in  the  starlight. 

Slowly  through  the  perfumed  gloom  they  glided,  her 
warm  head  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  vague 
water  ahead. 

A  stag  crashed  through  the  reeds  ashore;  the  June 
fawn  stared  with  eyes  like  rubies  in  the  dark. 

Onward,  onward,  through  the  spell-bound  forest;  and 
at  last  the  windows  of  the  house  glimmered,  reflected  in 
the  water. 

Garcide  and  Crawford  awaited  them  on  the  veranda 
as  they  came  up,  rising  in  chilling  silence,  ignoring  the 
offered  hands  of  greeting. 

"I've  a  word  to  say  to  you,"  snarled  the  Hon.  John 
Garcide,  in  his  ward's  ear — "and  another  word  for  your 
fool  of  an  aunt ! ' ' 

She  shrank  back  against  her  husband,  amazed  and 
hurt.  "What  do  you  mean?"  she  stammered;  "we — 
we  are  married.  Will  you  not  speak  to  my — my  hus 
band?" 

A  silence,  too  awful  to  last,  was  broken  by  a  hoarse 
laugh. 

"You're  all  right,  Jim,"  said  the  elder  Crawford, 
slowly.  "Ophir  Steel  won't  slip  through  your  fingers 
when  I'm  under  the  sod.  Been  married  long,  Jim?" 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 


"AND  of  course  what  I  buy  is  my  own,"  continued 
/~\  Burleson,  patiently.  "No  man  here  will  ques 
tion  that,  I  suppose?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  cross-roads 
store;  then  a  lank,  mud-splashed  native  arose  from  be 
hind  the  stove,  shoving  his  scarred  hands  deep  into  the 
ragged  pockets  of  his  trousers. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  harshly,  "there's  a  few  things 
you  can't  buy;  you  may  think  you  can  buy  'em — you 
may  pay  for  'em,  too — but  they  can't  be  bought  an' 
sold.  You  thought  you  bought  Grier's  tract;  you 
thought  you  bought  a  lot  o'  deer  an'  birds  an'  fish, 
several  thousand  acres  in  timber,  and  a  dozen  lakes. 
An'  you  paid  for  'em,  too.  But,  sonny,  you  was  took 
in;  you  paid  for  'em,  but  you  didn't  buy  'em,  because 
Grier  couldn't  sell  God's  free  critters.  He  fooled  ye 
that  time." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  regard  it,  Santry?"  asked 
Burleson.  "Is  that  the  way  these  people  regard  pri 
vate  property?" 

"I  guess  it  is,"  replied  the  ragged  man,  resuming  his 

123 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

seat  on  the  flour-barrel.  "I  cal'late  the  Lord  A'mighty 
fashioned  His  wild  critters  f'r  to  peramble  round  about, 
oflferin'  a  fair  mark  an'  no  favor  to  them  that's  smart 
enough  to  git  'em  with  buck,  bird-shot,  or  bullet.  Live 
wild  critters  ain't  for  sale;  they  never  was  made  to  buy 
an'  sell.  The  spryest  gits  'em — an'  that's  all  about 
it,  I  guess,  Mister  Burleson." 

A  hard-faced  young  man  leaning  against  the  counter, 
added  significantly:  "We  talked  some  to  Grier,  an'  he 
sold  out.  He  come  here,  too,  just  like  you." 

The  covert  menace  set  two  spots  of  color  deepening 
in  young  Burleson's  lean  cheeks;  but  he  answered 
calmly: 

"What  a  man  believes  to  be  his  own  he  seldom  aban 
dons  from  fear  of  threats." 

"That's  kinder  like  our  case,"  observed  old  man  San- 
try,  chewing  vigorously. 

Another  man  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  a  neigh 
bor,  who  turned  a  grim  eye  on  Burleson  without  reply 
ing. 

As  for  Burleson  and  his  argument,  a  vicious  circle 
had  been  completed,  and  there  was  little  chance  of  an 
understanding;  he  saw  that  plainly,  but,  loath  to  admit 
it,  turned  towards  old  man  Santry  once  more. 

"If  what  has  been  common  rumor  is  true,"  he  said, 
"Mr.  Grier,  from  whom  I  bought  the  Spirit  Lake  tract, 
was  rough  in  defending  what  he  believed  to  be  his  own. 
I  want  to  be  decent;  I  desire  to  preserve  the  game  and 
the  timber,  but  not  at  the  expense  of  human  suffering. 
You  know  better  than  I  do  what  has  been  the  history 
of  Fox  Cross-roads.  Twenty-five  years  ago  your  village 
was  a  large  one;  you  had  tanneries,  lumber-mills,  paper- 

124 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

mills — even  a  newspaper.  To-day  the  timber  is  gone, 
and  so  has  the  town  except  for  your  homes — twenty 
houses,  perhaps.  Your  soil  is  sand  and  slate,  fit  only 
for  a  new  forest ;  the  entire  country  is  useless  for  farm 
ing,  and  it  is  the  natural  home  of  pine  and  oak,  of  the 
deer  and  partridge." 

He  took  one  step  nearer  the  silent  circle  around  the 
stove.  "I  have  offered  to  buy  your  rights;  Grier 
hemmed  you  in  on  every  side  to  force  you  out.  I  do 
not  want  to  force  you;  I  offer  to  buy  your  land  at  a 
fair  appraisal.  And  your  answer  is  to  put  a  prohib 
itive  price  on  the  land." 

"Because,"  observed  old  man  Santry,  "we've  got  you 
ketched.  That's  business,  I  guess." 

Burleson  flushed  up.  "Not  business;  blackmail, 
Santry." 

Another  silence,  then  a  man  laughed:  "Is  that  what 
they  call  it  down  to  York,  Mr.  Burleson?" 

"I  think  so." 

"When  a  man  wants  to  put  up  a  skyscraper  an'  gits 
all  but  the  key -lot,  an'  if  the  owner  of  the  key -lot  holds 
out  for  his  price,  do  they  call  it  blackmail?" 

"No,"  said  Burleson;  "I  think  I  spoke  hastily." 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  in  the  store.  After 
a  moment  old  man  Santry  opened  his  clasp-knife,  leaned 
forward,  and  shaved  off  a  thin  slice  from  the  cheese  on 
the  counter.  This  he  ate,  faded  eyes  fixed  on  space. 
Men  all  around  him  relaxed  in  their  chairs,  spat,  re- 
crossed  their  muddy  boots,  stretching  and  yawning. 
Plainly  the  conference  had  ended. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  young  Burleson;  "I  had  hoped 
for  a  fair  understanding." 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Nobody  answered. 

He  tucked  his  riding-crop  under  one  arm  and  stood 
watching  them,  buttoning  his  tan  gloves.  Then  with 
the  butt  of  his  crop  he  rubbed  a  dry  spot  of  mud 
from  his  leather  puttees,  freed  the  incrusted  spurs, 
and  turned  towards  the  door,  pausing  there  to  look 
back. 

"I  hate  to  leave  it  this  way,"  he  said,  impulsively. 
"I  want  to  live  in  peace  with  my  neighbors.  I  mean 
to  make  no  threats — but  neither  can  I  be  moved  by 
threats.  .  .  .  Perhaps  time  will  aid  us  to  come  to  a  fair 
understanding;  perhaps  a  better  knowledge  of  one  an 
other.  Although  the  shooting  and  fishing  are  restricted, 
my  house  is  always  open  to  my  neighbors.  You  will 
be  welcome  when  you  come — 

The  silence  was  profound  as  he  hesitated,  standing 
there  before  them  in  the  sunshine  of  the  doorway — a 
lean,  well-built,  faultless  figure,  an  unconscious  chal 
lenge  to  poverty,  a  terrible  offence  to  their  every  in 
stinct — the  living  embodiment  of  all  that  they  hated 
most  in  all  the  world. 

And  so  he  went  away  with  a  brief  "Good-morning," 
swung  himself  astride  his  horse,  and  cantered  off,  gather 
ing  bridle  as  he  rode,  sweeping  at  a  gallop  across  the 
wooden  bridge  into  the  forest  world  beyond. 

The  September  woods  were  dry — dry  enough  to  catch 
fire.  His  troubled  eyes  swept  the  second  growth  as 
he  drew  bridle  at  a  gate  set  in  a  fence  eight  feet  high 
and  entirely  constructed  of  wire  net  interwoven  with 
barbed  wire,  and  heavily  hedged  with  locust  and  buck 
thorn. 

He  dismounted,  unlocked  the  iron  gate,  led  his  horse 

126 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

through,  refastened  the  gate,  and  walked  on,  his  horse 
following  as  a  trained  dog  follows  at  heel. 

Through  the  still  September  sunshine  ripened  leaves 
drifted  down  through  interlaced  branches,  and  the 
whispering  rustle  of  their  fall  filled  the  forest  silence. 
The  wood  road,  carpeted  with  brilliant  leaves,  wound 
through  second  growth,  following  the  edge  of  a  dark, 
swift  stream,  then  swept  westward  among  the  pines, 
where  the  cushion  of  brown  needles  deadened  every 
step,  and  where  there  was  no  sound  save  the  rustle  of 
a  flock  of  rose-tinted  birds  half  buried  in  the  feathery 
fronds  of  a  white  pine.  Again  the  road  curved  east 
ward,  skirting  a  cleft  of  slate  rocks,  through  which  the 
stream  rushed  with  the  sound  of  a  wind-stirred  wood 
land;  and  by  this  stream  a  man  stood,  loading  a  rusty 
fowling-piece. 

Young  Burleson  had  retained  Grier's  keepers,  for  ob 
vious  reasons;  and  already  he  knew  them  all  by  name. 
But  this  man  was  no  keeper  of  his;  and  he  walked 
straight  up  to  him,  bidding  him  a  rather  sharp  good- 
morning,  which  was  sullenly  returned. 

Then  Burleson  told  him  as  pleasantly  as  he  could 
that  the  land  was  preserved,  that  he  could  not  tolerate 
armed  trespassing,  and  that  the  keepers  were  charged 
to  enforce  the  laws. 

"It  is  better,"  he  said,  "to  have  a  clear  understand 
ing  at  once.  I  think  the  law  governing  private  property 
is  clearly  set  forth  on  the  signs  along  my  boundary. 
This  preserve  is  posted  and  patrolled;  I  have  done  all  I 
could  to  guarantee  public  rights;  I  have  not  made  any 
application  to  have  the  public  road  closed,  and  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  keep  it  open  for  public  convenience. 

127 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

But  it  is  not  right  for  anybody  to  carry  a  gun  in  these 
preserves;  and  if  it  continues  I  shall  surely  apply  for 
permission  to  close  the  road." 

"  I  guess  you  think  you'll  do  a  lot  o'  things,"  observed 
the  man,  stolidly. 

"I  think  I  will,"  returned  Burleson,  refusing  to  take 
offence  at  the  insolence. 

The  man  tossed  his  gun  to  his  shoulder  and  slouched 
towards  the  boundary.  Burleson  watched  him  in  si 
lence  until  the  fellow  reached  the  netted  wire  fence, 
then  he  called  out. 

"There  is  a  turnstile  to  the  left." 

But  the  native  deliberately  drew  a  hatchet  from  his 
belt,  opened  the  wire  netting  with  one  heavy  slash,  and 
crawled  through.  Then  wheeling  in  his  tracks  outside, 
he  cursed  Burleson  and  shook  his  gun  at  him,  and  finally 
slouched  off  towards  Fox  Cross-roads,  leaving  the  mas 
ter  of  the  forest  a  trifle  white  and  quivering  under  the 
cutting  curb  of  self-control. 

Presently  his  spasmodic  grip  on  the  riding-crop  re 
laxed;  he  looked  about  him  with  a  long,  quiet  breath, 
flicked  a  burr  from  his  riding-breeches,  and  walked  on, 
head  lowered  and  jaw  set.  His  horse  followed  at  his 
heels. 

A  mile  beyond  he  met  a  keeper  demolishing  a  deadfall 
along  the  creek,  and  he  summoned  him  with  a  good- 
humored  greeting. 

"Rolfe,  we're  headed  for  trouble,  but  it  must  not 
come — do  you  hear  ?  I  won't  have  it  if  it  can  be  avoid 
ed — and  it  must  be  avoided.  These  poor  devils  that 
Grier  hemmed  in  and  warned  off  with  his  shot-gun  patrol 
are  looking  for  that  same  sort  of  thing  from  me.  Petty 

128 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

annoyance  shall  not  drive  me  into  violence;  I've  made 
it  plain  to  every  keeper,  every  forester,  every  man  who 
takes  wages  from  me.  If  I  can  stand  insolence  from 
people  I  am  sorry  for,  my  employes  can  and  must.  .  .  . 
Who  was  that  man  I  met  below  here?" 

"Abe  Storm,  sir." 

"What  was  he  doing — building  deadfalls?" 

"Seven,  sir.  He  had  three  muskrats,  a  mink,  and  a 
string  of  steel  traps  when  I  caught  him— 

"  Rolfe,  you  go  to  Abe  Storm  and  tell  him  I  give  him 
leave  to  take  muskrat  and  mink  along  Spirit  Creek,  and 
that  I'll  allow  him  a  quarter  bounty  on  every  unmarked 
pelt,  and  he  may  keep  the  pelts,  too." 

The  keeper  looked  blankly  at  the  master:  "Why — 
why,  Mr.  Burleson,  he'g  the  dirtiest,  meanest  market 
hunter  in  the  lot!" 

"You  do  as  I  say,  Rolfe,"  said  the  master,  amiably. 

"Yes,  sir — but — " 

"Did  you  deliver  my  note  to  the  fire-warden?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  old  man's  abed  with  miseries.  He 
said  he'd  send  his  deputy  at  noon." 

Burleson  laid  his  gloved  hand  on  his  horse's  saddle, 
looking  sharply  at  the  keeper. 

"They  tell  me  that  Mr.  Elliott  has  seen  better  fort 
une,  Rolfe." 

"Yes,  sir.  When  the  Cross-roads  went  to  pot,  he 
went  too.  He  owned  a  piece  o'  land  that  was  no  good 
only  for  the  timber.  He's  like  the  rest  o'  them,  I  guess 
— only  he  had  more  to  lose — an'  he  lost  it  same  as  all  o' 
them." 

Burleson  drew  out  his  watch,  glanced  at  it,  and  then 
mounted. 

9  129 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Try  to  make  a  friend  of  Abe  Storm,"  he  said;  "that 
is  my  policy,  and  you  all  know  it.  Help  me  to  keep  the 
peace,  Rolfe.  If  I  keep  it,  I  don't  see  how  they're  go 
ing  to  break  it." 

"Very  well,  sir.     But  it  riles  me  to — 

"Nonsense!  Now  tell  me  where  I'm  to  meet  the 
fire-warden's  deputy.  Oh!  then  I'll  jump  him  some 
where  before  long.  And  remember,  Rolfe,  that  it's  no 
more  pleasure  for  me  to  keep  my  temper  than  it  is  for 
anybody.  But  I've  got  to  do  it,  and  so  have  you.  And, 
after  all,  it's  more  fun  to  keep  it  than  to  let  it  loose." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Rolfe,  grinning  like  a  dusty  fox  in 
July. 

So  Burleson  rode  on  at  a  canter,  presently  slacking  to 
a  walk,  arguing  with  himself  in  a  low,  calm  voice: 

"Poor  devils — poor,  half -starved  devils!  If  I  could 
afford  to  pay  their  prices  I'd  do  it.  .  .  .  I'll  wink  at  any 
thing  short  of  destruction;  I  can't  let  them  cut  the 
pine;  I  can't  let  them  clean  out  the  grouse  and  deer  and 
fish.  As  for  law-suits,  I  simply  won't!  There  must  be 
some  decent  way  short  of  a  shot-gun." 

He  stretched  out  a  hand  and  broke  a  flaming  maple 
leaf  from  a  branch  in  passing,  drew  it  through  his  but 
ton-hole,  thoughtful  eyes  searching  the  road  ahead, 
which  now  ran  out  through  long  strips  of  swale  bor 
dered  by  saplings. 

Presently  a  little  breeze  stirred  the  foliage  of  the  white 
birches  to  a  sea  of  tremulous  gold;  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  rider  appeared  in  the  marsh  beyond,  galloping 
through  the  blanched  swale-grass,  which  rose  high  as 
the  horse's  girth. 

Young  Burleson  drew  bridle;  the  slim  youth  who  sat 

130 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

his  saddle  so  easily  must  be  the  deputy  of  the  sick  fire 
warden;  this  was  the  time  and  the  place. 

As  the  young  rider  galloped  up,  Burleson  leaned  for 
ward,  offering  his  hand  with  an  easy,  pleasant  greeting. 
The  hand  was  unnoticed,  the  greeting  breathlessly  re 
turned;  two  grave,  gray  eyes  met  his,  and  Burleson 
found  himself  looking  into  the  flushed  face  of  a  young 
girl. 

When  he  realized  this,  he  took  off  his  cap,  and  she 
inclined  her  head,  barely  acknowledging  his  salute. 

"I  am  Mr.  Elliott's  daughter,"  she  said;  "you  are 
Mr.  Burleson?" 

Burleson  had  the  honor  of  presenting  himself,  cap  in 
hand. 

"I  am  my  father's  deputy,"  said  the  girl,  quietly, 
gathering  her  bridle  and  wheeling  her  horse.  "I  read 
your  note.  Have  you  reason  to  believe  that  an  attempt 
has  been  made  to  fire  the  Owl  Vlaie?" 

There  was  a  ring  of  business  in  her  voice  that  struck 
him  as  amusingly  delightful — and  such  a  sweet,  clear 
voice,  too,  untinged  with  the  slightest  taint  of  native 
accent. 

"  Yes,"  said  Burleson,  gravely,  "I'm  afraid  that  some 
body  tried  to  burn  the  vlaie.  I  think  that  a  change  in 
the  wind  alone  saved  us  from  a  bad  fire." 

"Shall  we  ride  over?"  inquired  the  girl,  moving  for 
ward  with  unconscious  grace. 

Burleson  ranged  his  big  horse  alongside;  she  set  her 
mount  at  a  gallop,  and  away  they  went,  wheeling  into 
the  swale,  knee-deep  in  dry,  silvery  grasses,  until  the 
deputy  fire-warden  drew  bridle  with  a  side-flung  cau 
tion:  "Muskrats!  Look  out  for  a  cropper!" 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Now,  at  a  walk,  the  horses  moved  forward  side  by 
side  through  the  pale,  glistening  sea  of  grass  stretching 
out  on  every  side. 

Over  a  hidden  pond  a  huge  heron  stood  guard,  stiff 
and  shapeless  as  a  weather-beaten  stake.  Blackbirds 
with  crimson-slashed  shoulders  rose  in  clouds  from  the 
reeds,  only  to  settle  again  as  they  passed  amid  a  cease 
less  chorus  of  harsh  protest.  Once  a  pair  of  summer 
duck  came  speeding  overhead,  and  Burleson,  looking 
up,  exclaimed: 

"There's  a  bird  I  never  shoot  at.  It's  too  beauti 
ful." 

The  girl  turned  her  head,  serious  gray  eyes  question 
ing  his. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  wood-duck? — a  drake?  in 
full  plumage?"  he  asked. 

"Often — before  Mr.  Grier  came." 

Burleson  fell  silent,  restless  in  his  saddle,  then  said: 

"I  hope  you  will  see  many  wood-duck  now.  My 
boats  on  Spirit  Water  are  always  at  Mr.  Elliott's  dis 
posal — and  at  yours." 

She  made  the  slightest  sign  of  acknowledgment,  but 
said  nothing.  Once  or  twice  she  rose  upright,  standing 
straight  in  her  stirrups  to  scan  the  distance  under  a 
small,  inverted  hand.  East  and  north  the  pine  forest 
girdled  the  vlaie;  west  and  south  hardwood  timber 
laced  the  sky-line  with  branches  partly  naked,  and  the 
pine's  outposts  of  white  birch  and  willow  glimmered 
like  mounds  of  crumpled  gold  along  the  edges  of  the 
sea  of  grass. 

"There  is  the  stream!"  said  Burleson,  suddenly. 

She  saw  it  at  the  same  moment,  touched  her  mare 

132 


THE    FIRE -WARDEN 

with  spurred  heels,  and  lifted  her  clean  over  with  a 
grace  that  set  Burleson's  nerves  thrilling. 

He  followed,  taking  the  water-jump  without  effort; 
and  after  a  second's  hesitation  ventured  to  praise  her 
horse. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  indifferently,  "The  Witch  is  a  good 
mare."  After  a  silence,  "My  father  desires  .to  sell  her." 

"  I  know  a  dozen  men  who  would  jump  at  the  chance," 
said  the  young  fellow.  "But" — he  hesitated — "it  is  a 
shame  to  sell  such  a  mare — " 

The  girl  colored.  "  My  father  will  never  ride  again," 
she  said,  quietly.  "  We  should  be  very  glad  to  sell  her." 

"  But — the  mare  suits  you  so  perfectly — 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  gravely. 
"You  must  be  aware,  Mr.  Burleson,  that  it  is  not  choice 
with  us,"  she  said.  There  was  nothing  of  bitterness  in 
her  voice;  she  leaned  forward,  patting  the  mare's  chest 
nut  neck  for  a  moment,  then  swung  back,  sitting  straight 
as  a  cavalryman  in  her  saddle.  "Of  course,"  she  said, 
smiling  for  the  first  time,  "it  will  break  my  heart  to  sell 
The  Witch,  but" — she  patted  the  mare  again — "the 
mare  won't  grieve;  it  takes  a  dog  to  do  that;  but  horses 
— well,  I  know  horses  enough  to  know  that  even  The 
Witch  won't  grieve." 

"That  is  a  radical  theory,  Miss  Elliott,"  said  Burleson, 
amused.  "What  about  the  Arab  and  his  loving  steed  ?" 

"That  is  not  a  legend  for  people  who  know  horses," 
she  replied,  still  smiling.  "The  love  is  all  on  our  side. 
You  know  horses,  Mr.  Burleson.  Is  it  not  the  truth — the 
naked  truth,  stripped  of  poetry  and  freed  from  tradition  ?" 

"Why  strip  poetry  from  anything?"  he  asked,  laugh 
ing. 

133 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

She  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  while,  the  bright  smile 
fading  from  lips  and  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you  are  quite  right,"  she  said ;  "  let  us  leave  what 
romance  there  may  be  in  the  world.  My  horse  loves  me 
like  a  dog.  I  am  very  happy  to  believe  it,  Mr.  Burleson." 

From  the  luminous  shadow  of  her  sombrero  she  look 
ed  out  across  the  stretch  of  marsh,  where  from  unseen 
pools  the  wild-duck  were  rising,  disturbed  by  the  sound 
of  their  approach.  And  now  the  snipe  began  to  dart 
skyward  from  under  their  horses'  feet,  filling  the  noon 
silence  with  their  harsh  "squak!  squak!" 

"It's  along  here  somewhere,"  said  Burleson,  leaning 
forward  in  his  saddle  to  scan  the  swale-grass.  A  mo 
ment  later  he  said,  "Look  there,  Miss  Elliott!" 

In  the  tall,  blanched  grasses  a  velvety  black  space 
marked  the  ashes  of  a  fire,  which  had  burned  in  a  semi 
circle,  then  westward  to  the  water's  edge. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "it  was  started  to  sweep  the 
vlaie  to  the  pine  timber.  The  wind  changed,  and  held 
it  until  the  fire  was  quenched  at  the  shore." 

"I  see,"  she  said. 

He  touched  his  horse,  and  they  pressed  forward  along 
the  bog's  edge. 

"Here,"  he  pointed  out,  "they  fired  the  grass  again, 
you  see,  always  counting  on  the  west  wind;  and  here 
again,  and  yonder  too,  and  beyond  that,  Miss  Elliott — 
in  a  dozen  places  they  set  the  grass  afire.  If  that  wet 
east  wind  had  not  come  up,  nothing  on  earth  could 
have  saved  a  thousand  acres  of  white  pine — and  I'm 
afraid  to  say  how  many  deer  and  partridges  and  wood 
cock.  ...  It  was  a  savage  bit  of  business,  was  it  not, 
Miss  Elliott  ?" 

134 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

She  sat  her  horse,  silent,  motionless,  pretty  head  bent, 
studying  the  course  of  the  fire  in  the  swale.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  signs;  a  grass  fire  had  been  started, 
which,  had  the  west  wind  held,  must  have  become  a 
brush  fire,  and  then  the  most  dreaded  scourge  of  the 
north,  a  full-fledged  forest -fire  in  tall  timber.  After 
a  little  while  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  full  at 
Burleson,  then,  without  comment,  she  wheeled  her 
mare  eastward  across  the  vlaie  towards  the  pines. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  he  asked,  pushing  his 
horse  forward  alongside  of  her  mare. 

"The  signs  are  perfectly  plain,"  she  said.  "Whom 
do  you  suspect?" 

He  waited  a  moment,  then  shook  his  head. 

"You  suspect  nobody?" 

"I  haven't  been  here  long  enough.  I  don't  exactly 
know  what  to  do  about  this.  It  is  comparatively  easy 
to  settle  cases  of  simple  trespass  or  deer-shooting,  but, 
to  tell  the  truth,  Miss  Elliott,  fire  scares  me.  I  don't 
know  how  to  meet  this  sort  of  thing." 

She  was  silent. 

"So,"  he  added,  "I  sent  for  the  fire-warden.  I  don't 
know  just  what  the  warden's  duties  may  be." 

"I  do,"  she  said,  quietly.  Her  mare  struck  solid 
ground;  she  sent  her  forward  at  a  gallop,  which  broke 
into  a  dead  run.  Burleson  came  pounding  along  be 
hind,  amused,  interested  at  this  new  caprice.  She  drew 
bridle  at  the  edge  of  the  birches,  half  turned  in  her 
saddle,  bidding  him  follow  with  a  gesture,  and  rode 
straight  into  the  covert,  now  bending  to  avoid  branches, 
now  pushing  intrusive  limbs  aside  with  both  gloved 
hands. 

135 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Out  of  the  low  bush  pines,  heirs  of  the  white  birches' 
heritage,  rabbits  hopped  away;  sometimes  a  cock  grouse, 
running  like  a  rat,  fled,  crested  head  erect ;  twice  twitter 
ing  woodcock  whirred  upward,  beating  wings  tangled 
for  a  moment  in  the  birches,  fluttering  like  great  moths 
caught  in  a  net. 

And  now  they  had  waded  through  the  silver-birches 
which  fringed  the  pines  as  foam  fringes  a  green  sea; 
and  before  them  towered  the  tall  timber,  illuminated 
by  the  sun. 

In  the  transparent  green  shadows  they  drew  bridle; 
she  leaned  forward,  clearing  the  thick  tendrils  of  hair 
from  her  forehead,  and  sat  stock-still,  intent,  every 
exquisite  line  and  contour  in  full  relief  against  the 
pines. 

At  first  he  thought  she  was  listening,  nerves  keyed  to 
sense  sounds  inaudible  to  him.  Then,  as  he  sat,  fasci 
nated,  scarcely  breathing  lest  the  enchantment  break, 
leaving  him  alone  in  the  forest  with  the  memory  of  a 
dream,  a  faint  aromatic  odor  seemed  to  grow  in  the 
air;  not  the  close  scent  of  the  pines,  but  something  less 
subtle. 

"Smoke!"  he  said,  aloud. 

She  touched  her  mare  forward,  riding  into  the  wind, 
delicate  nostrils  dilated ;  and  he  followed  over  the  sound 
less  cushion  of  brown  needles,  down  aisles  flanked  by 
pillared  pines  whose  crests  swam  in  the  upper  breezes, 
filling  all  the  forest  with  harmony. 

And  here,  deep  in  the  splendid  forest,  there  was  fire, 
— at  first  nothing  but  a  thin,  serpentine  trail  of  ashes 
through  moss  and  bedded  needles;  then,  scarcely  six 
inches  in  width,  a  smouldering,  sinuous  path  from 

136 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

which  fine  threads  of  smoke  rose  straight  upward,  van 
ishing  in  the  woodland  half-light. 

He  sprang  from  his  horse  and  tore  away  a  bed  of 
green  moss  through  which  filaments  of  blue  smoke 
stole;  and  deep  in  the  forest  mould,  spreading  like  veins 
in  an  autumn  leaf,  fire  ran  underground,  its  almost  in 
visible  vapor  curling  up  through  lichens  and  the  brown 
carpet  of  pine-needles. 

At  first,  for  it  was  so  feeble  a  fire,  scarcely  alive,  he 
strove  to  stamp  it  out,  then  to  smother  it  with  damp 
mould.  But  as  he  followed  its  wormlike  course,  al 
ways  ahead  he  saw  the  thin,  blue  signals  rising  through 
living  moss — everywhere  the  attenuated  spirals  creep 
ing  from  the  ground  underfoot. 

"I  could  summon  every  man  in  this  town  if  neces 
sary,"  she  said;  "I  am  empowered  by  law  to  do  so;  but 
— I  shall  not — yet.  Where  could  we  find  a  keeper — 
the  nearest  patrol?" 

"Please  follow  me,"  he  said,  mounting  his  horse  and 
wheeling  eastward. 

In  a  few  moments  they  came  to  a  foot -trail,  and 
turned  into  it  at  a  canter,  skirting  the  Spirit  Water, 
which  stretched  away  between  two  mountains  glitter 
ing  in  the  sun. 

"How  many  men  can  you  get?"  she  called  forward. 

"I  don't  know;  there's  a  gang  of  men  terracing  below 
the  lodge — " 

"Call  them  all;  let  every  man  bring  a  pick  and  shovel. 
There  is  a  guard  now!" 

Burleson  pulled  up  short  and  shouted,  "Murphy!" 

The  patrol  turned  around. 

"Get  the  men  who  are  terracing  the  lodge.  Bring 
137 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

picks,  shovels,  and  axes,  and  meet  me  here.  Run  for 
it!" 

The  fire-warden's  horse  walked  tip  leisurely;  the  girl 
had  relinquished  the  bridle  and  was  guiding  the  mare 
with  the  slightest  pressure  of  knee  and  heel.  She  sat 
at  ease,  head  lowered,  absently  retying  the  ribbon  on 
the  hair  at  her  neck.  When  it  was  adjusted  to  her 
satisfaction  she  passed  a  hat -pin  through  her  sombrero, 
touched  the  bright,  thick  hair  above  her  forehead, 
straightened  out,  stretching  her  legs  in  the  stirrups. 
Then  she  drew  off  her  right  gauntlet,  and  very  discreetly 
stifled  the  daintiest  of  yawns. 

"You  evidently  don't  believe  there  is  much  danger," 
said  Burleson,  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  relieve  the 
tension  he  had  labored  under. 

"Yes,  there  is  danger,"  she  said. 

After  a  silence  she  added,  "  I  think  I  hear  your  men 
coming." 

He  listened  in  vain;  he  heard  the  wind  above  filter 
ing  through  the  pines;  he  heard  the  breathing  of  their 
horses,  and  his  own  heart-beats,  too.  Then  very  far 
away  a  sound  broke  out. 

"  What  wonderful  ears  you  have!"  he  said — not  think 
ing  of  their  beauty  until  his  eye  fell  on  their  lovely  con 
tour.  And  as  he  gazed  the  little,  clean-cut  ear  next  to 
him  turned  pink,  and  its  owner  touched  her  mare  for 
ward — apparently  in  aimless  caprice,  for  she  circled  and 
came  straight  back,  meeting  his  gaze  with  her  pure,  fear 
less  gray  eyes. 

There  must  have  been  something  not  only  perfect 
ly  inoffensive,  but  also  well-bred,  in  Burleson 's  lean, 
bronzed  face,  for  her  own  face  softened  into  an  amia- 

138 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

ble  expression,  and  she  wheeled  the  mare  up  beside  his 
mount,  confidently  exposing  the  small  ear  again. 

The  men  were  coming;  there  could  be  no  mistake 
this  time.  And  there  came  Murphy,  too,  and  Rolfe, 
with  his  great,  swinging  stride,  gun  on  one  shoulder,  a 
bundle  of  axes  on  the  other. 

"This  way,"  said  Burleson,  briefly;  but  the  fire 
warden  cut  in  ahead,  cantering  forward  up  the  trail, 
nonchalantly  breaking  off  a  twig  of  aromatic  black  birch, 
as  she  rode,  to  place  between  her  red  lips. 

Murphy,  arriving  in  the  lead,  scanned  the  haze  which 
hung  along  the  living  moss. 

"Sure,  it's  a  foolish  fire,  sorr,"  he  muttered,  "bur 
rowing  like  a  mole  gone  mad.  Rest  aisy,  Misther 
Burleson;  we'll  scotch  the  divil  that  done  this  night's 
worruk! — bad  cess  to  the  dhirrty  scut!" 

"Never  mind  that,  Murphy.  Miss  Elliott,  are  they 
to  dig  it  out?" 

She  nodded. 

The  men,  ranged  in  an  uneven  line,  stood  stupidly 
staring  at  the  long  vistas  of  haze.  The  slim  fire-warden 
wheeled  her  mare  to  face  them,  speaking  very  quietly, 
explaining  how  deep  to  dig,  how  far  a  margin  might  be 
left  in  safety,  how  many  men  were  to  begin  there,  and 
at  what  distances  apart. 

Then  she  picked  ten  men  and  bade  them  follow  her. 

Burleson  rode  in  the  rear,  motioning  Rolfe  to  his 
stirrup. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  think,  sir,  that  one  of  those  damned  Storms  did 
it—" 

139 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  mean,  what  do  you  think  about  the  chances?  Is 
it  serious?" 

"That  young  lady  ahead  knows  better  than  I  do. 
I've  seen  two  of  these  here  underground  fires:  one  was 
easy  killed;  the  other  cleaned  out  three  thousand  acres." 

Burleson  nodded.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "that  you 
had  better  go  back  to  the  lodge  and  get  every  spare 
man.  Tell  Rudolf  to  rig  up  a  wagon  and  bring  rations 
and  water  for  the  men.  Put  in  something  nice  for  Miss 
Elliott — see  to  that,  Rolfe;  do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And,  Rolfe,  bring  feed  for  the  horses — and  see  that 
there  are  a  couple  of  men  to  watch  the  house  and 
stables —  He  broke  out,  bitterly,  "It's  a  scoundrelly 
bit  of  work  they've  done! — "  and  instantly  had  himself 
under  control  again.  "Better  go  at  once,  Rolfe,  and 
caution  the  men  to  remain  quiet  under  provocation  if 
any  trespassers  come  inside." 


II 

ft 

By  afternoon  they  had  not  found  the  end  of  the  under 
ground  fire.  The  live  trail  had  been  followed  and  the 
creeping  terror  exterminated  for  half  a  mile;  yet,  al 
though  two  ditches  had  been  dug  to  cut  the  fire  off 
from  farther  progress,  always  ahead  the  haze  hung 
motionless,  stretching  away  westward  through  the 
pines. 

Now  a  third  trench  was  started — far  enough  forward 
this  time,  for  there  was  no  blue  haze  visible  beyond  the 
young  hemlock  growth. 

140 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

The  sweating  men,  stripped  to  their  undershirts, 
swung  pick  and  axe  and  drove  home  their  heavy  shovels. 
Burleson,  his  gray  flannel  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  arms 
bared  to  the  shoulder,  worked  steadily  among  his  men; 
on  a  knoll  above,  the  fire-warden  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  pine-needles,  her  straight  young  back  against  a 
tree.  On  her  knees  were  a  plate  and  a  napkin.  She 
ate  bits  of  cold  partridge  at  intervals;  at  intervals 
she  sipped  a  glass  of  claret  and  regarded  Burleson 
dreamily. 

To  make  certain,  she  had  set  a  gang  of  men  to  clear 
the  woods  in  a  belt  behind  the  third  ditch;  a  young 
growth  of  hemlock  was  being  sacrificed,  and  the  forest 
rang  with  axe-strokes,  the  cries  of  men,  the  splintering 
crash  of  the  trees. 

"I  think,"  said  Burleson  to  Rolfe,  who  had  just  come 
up,  "that  we  are  ahead  of  the  trouble  now.  Did  you 
give  my  peaceful  message  to  Abe  Storm?" 

"No,  sir;  he  wasn't  to  home — damn  him!" 

The  young  man  looked  up  quickly.  "What's  the 
trouble  now?"  he  asked. 

"There's  plenty  more  trouble  ahead,"  said  the  keeper, 
in  a  low  voice.  "Look  at  this  belt,  sir!"  and  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  leather  belt,  unrolled  it,  and  pointed 
at  a  name  scratched  on  the  buckle.  The  name  was 
"Abe  Storm." 

"Where  did  that  come  from?"  demanded  Burleson. 

"The  man  that  fired  the  vlaie  grass  dropped  it.  Barry 
picked  it  up  on  patrol.  There's  the  evidence,  sir.  The 
belt  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  burning  grass." 

"  You  mean  he  dropped  it  last  night,  and  Barry  found 
it  where  the  grass  had  been  afire?" 

141 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"No,  sir;  that  belt  was  dropped  two  hours  since. 
The  grass  was  afire  again." 

The  color  left  Burleson's  face,  then  came  surging  back 
through  the  tightening  skin  of  the  set  jaws. 

"Barry  put  out  the  blaze,  sir.  He's  on  duty  there 
now  with  Chase  and  Connor.  God  help  Abe  Storm  if 
they  get  him  over  the  sights,  Mr.  Burleson." 

Burleson's  self-command  was  shaken.  He  reached 
out  his  hand  for  the  belt,  flung  away  his  axe,  and  walked 
up  the  slope  of  the  knoll  where  the  fire-warden  sat  calm 
ly  watching  him. 

For  a  few  moments  he  stood  before  her,  teeth  set,  in 
silent  battle  with  that  devil's  own  temper  which  had 
never  been  killed  in  him,  which  he  knew  now  could 
never  be  ripped  out  and  exterminated,  which  must, 
must  lie  chained — chained  while  he  himself  stood  tire 
less  guard,  knowing  that  chains  may  break. 

After  a  while  he  dropped  to  the  ground  beside  her, 
like  a  man  dead  tired.  "Tell  me  about  these  people," 
he  said. 

"What  people,  Mr.  Burleson?     My  own?" 

Her  sensitive  instinct  had  followed  the  little  drama 
from  her  vantage-seat  on  the  knoll;  she  had  seen  the 
patrol  display  the  belt;  she  had  watched  the  color  die 
out  and  then  flood  the  young  man's  face  and  neck;  and 
she  had  read  the  surface  signs  of  the  murderous  fury  that 
altered  his  own  visage  to  a  mask  set  with  a  pair  of  blaz 
ing  eyes.  And  suddenly,  as  he  dropped  to  the  ground 
beside  her,  his  question  had  swept  aside  formality, 
leaving  them  on  the  very  edge  of  an  intimacy  which 
she  had  accepted,  unconsciously,  with  her  low- voiced 
answer. 

142 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

"Yes — your  own  people.  Tell  what  I  should  know 
I  want  to  live  in  peace  among  them  if  they'll  let 
me." 

She  gathered  her  knees  in  her  clasped  fingers  and 
looked  out  into  the  forest.  "Mr.  Burleson,"  she  said 
"for  every  mental,  every  moral  deformity,  man  is  an 
swerable  to  man.  You  dwellers  in  the  pleasant  places 
of  the  world  are  pitiless  in  your  judgment  of  the  sullen, 
suspicious,  narrow  life  you  find  edging  forests,  clinging 
to  mountain  flanks,  or  stupidly  stifling  in  the  heart  of 
some  vast  plain.  I  cannot  understand  the  mental  cruel 
ty  which  condemns  with  contempt  human  creatures  who 
have  had  no  chance — not  one  single  chance.  Are  they 
ignorant  ?  Then  bear  with  them  for  shame !  Are  they 
envious,  grasping,  narrow?  Do  they  gossip  about 
neighbors,  do  they  slander  without  mercy?  What  can 
you  expect  from  starved  minds,  human  intellects  un- 
nourished  by  all  that  you  find  so  wholesome?  Man's 
progress  only  inspires  man;  man's  mind  alone  stimu 
lates  man's  mind.  Where  civilization  is,  there  are  many 
men:  where  is  the  greatest  culture,  the  broadest  thought, 
the  sweetest  toleration,  there  men  are  many,  teaching 
one  another  unconsciously,  consciously,  always  advanc 
ing,  always  uplifting,  spite  of  the  shallow  tide  of  sin 
which  flows  in  the  footsteps  of  all  progress — 

She  ceased;  her  delicate,  earnest  face  relaxed,  and 
a  smile  glimmered  for  a  moment  in  her  eyes,  in  the 
pretty  curled  corners  of  her  parted  lips. 

"  I'm  talking  very  like  a  school-marm,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  one,  by-the-way,  and  I  teach  the  children  of  these 
people — my  people,"  she  added,  with  an  exquisite  hint 
of  defiance  in  her  smile. 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

She  rested  her  weight  on  one  arm  and  leaned  towards 
him  a  trifle. 

"In  Fox  Cross-roads  there  is  much  that  is  hopeless, 
much  that  is  sorrowful,  Mr.  Burleson;  there  is  hunger, 
bodily  hunger;  there  is  sickness  unsolaced  by  spiritual 
or  bodily  comfort — not  even  the  comfort  of  death!  Ah, 
you  should  see  them — once!  Once  would  be  enough! 
And  no  physician,  nobody  that  knows,  I  tell  you — 
nobody  through  the  long,  dusty,  stifling  summers — 
nobody  through  the  lengthening  bitterness  of  the  black 
winters  —  nobody  except  myself.  Mr.  Burleson,  old 
man  Storm  died  craving  a  taste  of  broth;  and  Abe 
Storm  trapped  a  partridge  for  him,  and  Rolfe  caught 
him  and  Grier  jailed  him — and  confiscated  the  miser 
able,  half -plucked  bird!" 

The  hand  which  supported  her  weight  was  clinched; 
she  was  not  looking  at  the  man  beside  her,  but  his  eyes 
never  left  hers. 

"You  talk  angrily  of  market  hunting,  and  the  law 
forbids  it.  You  say  you  can  respect  a  poacher  who 
shoots  for  the  love  of  it,  but  you  have  only  contempt  for 
the  market  hunter.  And  you  are  right  sometimes — " 
She  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  "Old  Santry's  little  girl 
is  bedridden.  Santry  shot  and  sold  a  deer — and  bought 
his  child  a  patent  bed.  She  sleeps  almost  a  whole  hour 
now  without  much  pain." 

Burleson,  eyes  fixed  on  her,  did  not  stir.  The  fire 
warden  leaned  forward,  picked  up  the  belt,  and  read 
the  name  scratched  with  a  hunting-knife  on  the  brass 
buckle. 

"Before  Grier  came,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "there 
was  misery  enough  here  —  cold,  hunger,  disease  —  oh, 

144 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

plenty  of  disease  always.  Their  starved  lands  of  sand 
and  rock  gave  them  a  little  return  for  heart-breaking 
labor,  but  not  enough.  Their  rifles  helped  them  to  keep 
alive;  timber  was  free;  they  existed.  Then  suddenly 
forest,  game,  vlaie,  and  lake  were  taken  from  them — 
fenced  off,  closed  to  these  people  whose  fathers'  fathers 
had  established  free  thoroughfare  where  posted  warn 
ings  and  shot-gun  patrols  now  block  every  trodden  trail! 
What  is  the  sure  result? — and  Grier  was  brutal!  What 
could  be  expected?  Why,  Mr.  Burleson,  these  people 
are  Americans!  —  dwarfed  mentally,  stunted  morally, 
year  by  year  reverting  to  primal  type — yet  the  fire  in 
their  blood  set  their  grandfathers  marching  on  Saratoga! 
— marching  to  accomplish  the  destruction  of  all  kings! 
And  Grier  drove  down  here  with  a  coachman  and  foot 
man  in  livery  and  furs,  and  summoned  the  constable 
from  Brier  Bridge,  and  arrested  old  man  Santry  at  his 
child's  bedside — the  new  bed  paid  for  with  Grier's 
buck.  .  .  ." 

She  paused;  then,  with  a  long  breath,  she  straight 
ened  up  and  leaned  back  once  more  against  the  tree. 

"They  are  not  born  criminals,"  she  said.  "See  what 
you  can  do  with  them — see  what  you  can  do  for  them, 
Mr.  Burleson.  The  relative  values  of  a  deer  and  a  man 
have  changed  since  they  hanged  poachers  in  England." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  while,  watching  the  men  below. 

"Miss  Elliott,"  he  said,  impulsively,  "may  I  not 
know  your  father?" 

She  flushed  and  turned  towards  him  as  though  un 
pleasantly  startled.  That  was  only  instinct,  for  almost 
at  the  same  moment  she  leaned  back  quietly  against 
the  tree. 

10  145 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  think  my  father  would  like  to  know  you,"  she 
said.  "He  seldom  sees  men — men  like  himself." 

"Perhaps  you  would  let  me  smoke  a  cigarette,  Miss 
Elliott?"  he  ventured. 

"You  were  very  silly  not  to  ask  me  before,"  she  said, 
unconsciously  falling  into  his  commonplace  vein  of  easy 
deference. 

"I  wonder,"  he  went  on,  lazily,  "what  that  debris 
is  on  the  land  which  runs  back  from  the  store  at  Fox 
Cross-roads.  It  can't  be  that  anybody  was  simple 
enough  to  go  boring  for  oil." 

She  winced;  but  the  smile  remained  on  her  face,  and 
she  met  his  eyes  quite  calmly. 

"That  pile  of  debris,"  she  said,  "is,  I  fancy,  the  wreck 
of  the  house  of  Elliott.  My  father  did  bore  for  oil  and 
found  it — about  a  pint,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  Burleson,  red  as  a 
pippin. 

"I  am  not  a  bit  sensitive,"  she  said.  Her  mouth, 
the  white,  heavy  lids  of  her  eyes,  contradicted  her. 

"There  was  a  very  dreadful  smash-up  of  the  house 
of  Elliott,  Mr.  Burleson.  If  you  feel  a  bit  friendly  tow 
ards  that  house,  you  will  advise  me  how  I  may  sell 
'  The  Witch.'  I  don't  mind  telling  you  why.  My  father 
has  simply  got  to  go  to  some  place  where  rheumatism 
can  be  helped — be  made  bearable.  I  know  that  I  could 
easily  dispose  of  the  mare  if  I  were  in  a  civilized  re 
gion;  even  Grier  offered  half  her  value.  If  you  know 
of  any  people  who  care  for  that  sort  of  horse,  I'll 
be  delighted  to  enter  into  brisk  correspondence  with 
them." 

"I  know  a  man,"  observed  Burleson,  deliberately, 

146 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

"who  would  buy  that  mare  in  about  nine-tenths  of  a 
second." 

"Oh,  I'll  concede  him  the  other  tenth!"  cried  the 
girl,  laughing.  It  was  the  first  clear,  care-free  laugh 
he  had  heard  from  her — and  so  fascinating,  so  delicious, 
that  he  sat  there  silent  in  entranced  surprise. 

"About  the  value  of  the  mare,"  she  suggested,  dif 
fidently,  "you  may  tell  your  friend  that  she  is  only 
worth  what  father  paid  for  her — 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  "that's  not  the  way  to  sell  a 
horse!" 

"Why  not?     Isn't  she  worth  that  much?" 

"What  did  your  father  pay  for  her?" 

The  girl  named  the  sum  a  trifle  anxiously.  "It's  a 
great  deal,  I  know — " 

"It's  about  a  third  what  she's  worth,"  announced 
Burleson.  "If  I  were  you,  I'd  add  seventy-five  per 
cent.,  and  hold  out  like — like  a  demon  for  it." 

"  But  I  cannot  ask  more  than  we  paid — " 

"Why  not?" 

"I — don't  know.     Is  it  honorable?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  then  he 
began  to  laugh.  To  her  surprise,  she  felt  neither  resent 
ment  nor  chagrin,  although  he  was  plainly  laughing  at 
her.  So  presently  she  laughed,  too,  a  trifle  uncertainly, 
shy  eyes  avoiding  his,  yet  always  returning  curiously. 
She  did  not  know  just  why ;  she  was  scarcely  aware  that 
she  took  pleasure  in  this  lean -faced  young  horseman's 
company. 

"I  have  always  believed,"  she  began,  "that  to  sell 
anything  for  more  than  its  value  was  something  as 
horrid  as — as  usury." 

147 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Such  a  transaction  resembles  usury  as  closely  as  it 
does  the  theory  of  Pythagoras,"  he  explained;  and  pres 
ently  their  laughter  aroused  the  workmen,  who  looked 
up,  leaning  on  spade  and  pick. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  she  said,  "why  you  make 
such  silly  remarks  or  why  I  laugh  at  them.  A  boy 
once  affected  me  in  the  same  way — years  ago." 

She  sat  up  straight,  a  faint  smile  touching  her  mouth 
and  eyes.  "  I  think  that  my  work  is  about  ended  here, 
Mr.  Burleson.  Do  you  know  that  my  pupils  are  enjoying 
a  holiday — because  you  choose  to  indulge  in  a  forest- 
fire?" 

He  strove  to  look  remorseful,  but  he  only  grinned. 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  cared,"  she  said,  severely,  but 
made  no  motion  to  rise. 

Presently  he  mentioned  the  mare  again,  asking  if  she 
really  desired  to  sell  her;  and  she  said  that  she  did. 

"Then  I'll  wire  to -night,"  he  rejoined.  "There  should 
be  a  check  for  you  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  But  suppose  the  man  did  not  wish  to  buy  her?" 

"No  chance  of  that.  If  you  say  so,  the  mare  is  sold 
from  this  moment." 

"I  do  say  so,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "and 
thank  you,  Mr.  Burleson.  You  do  not  realize  how  as 
tonished  I  am — how  fortunate — how  deeply  happy — 

"I  can  only  realize  it  by  comparison,"  he  said. 

What,  exactly,  did  he  mean  by  that?  She  looked 
around  at  him;  he  was  absorbed  in  scooping  a  hole  in 
the  pine-needles  with  his  riding-crop. 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  his  speech  did  not 
always  express  his  thoughts;  that  it  was  very  pleasant 
to  listen  to,  but  rather  vague  than  precise. 

148 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

"  It  is  quite  necessary,"  he  mused  aloud,  "that  I  meet 
your  father — " 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "  Oh!  have  you  business  with 
him?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Burleson. 

This  time  the  silence  was  strained;  Miss  Elliott  re 
mained  very  still  and  thoughtful. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "that  this  country  is  only  matched 
in  paradise.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  place  on  earth!" 

To  this  astonishing  statement  she  prepared  no  an 
swer.  The  forest  was  attractive,  the  sun  perhaps 
brighter  than  usual  —  or  was  it  only  her  imagination 
due  to  her  own  happiness  in  selling  The  Witch? 

"When  may  I  call  upon  Mr.  Elliott?"  he  asked,  sud 
denly.  "To-night  ?" 

No;  really  he  was  too  abrupt,  his  conversation  nick 
ering  from  one  subject  to  another  without  relevance, 
without  logic.  She  had  no  time  to  reflect,  to  decide 
what  he  meant,  before,  crack!  he  was  off  on  another 
trail — and  his  English  no  vehicle  for  the  conveyance  of 
his  ideas. 

"There  is  something,"  he  continued,  "that  I  wish  to 
ask  you.  May  I  ?" 

She  bit  her  lip,  then  laughed,  her  gray  eyes  searching 
his.  "  Ask  it,  Mr.  Burleson,  for  if  I  lived  a  million  years 
I'm  perfectly  certain  I  could  never  guess  what  you  are 
going  to  say  next." 

"  It's  only  this,"  he  said,  with  a  worried  look,  "  I  don't 
know  your  first  name." 

"Why  should  you?"  she  demanded,  amused,  yet 
instinctively  resentful.  "I  don't  know  yours,  either, 
Mr.  Burleson — and  1  don't  even  ask  you." 

149 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said;  "my  name  is  only  John 
William.  Now  will  you  tell  me  yours?" 

She  remained  silent,  coping  with  a  candor  that  she 
had  not  met  with  since  she  went  to  parties  in  a  muslin 
frock.  She  remembered  one  boy  who  had  proposed 
elopement  on  ten  minutes'  acquaintance.  Burleson, 
somehow  or  other,  reminded  her  of  that  boy. 

"My  name,"  she  said,  carelessly,  "is  Constance." 

"I  like  that  name,"  said  Burleson. 

It  was  pretty  nearly  the  last  straw.  Never  had  she 
been  conscious  of  being  so  spontaneously,  so  unreason 
ably  approved  of  since  that  wretched  boy  had  sug 
gested  flight  at  her  first  party.  She  could  not  separate 
the  memory  of  the  innocent  youth  from  Burleson;  he 
was  intensely  like  that  boy;  and  she  had  liked  the  boy, 
too — liked  him  so  much  that  in  those  ten  heavenly  min 
utes'  acquaintance  she  was  half  persuaded  to  consent — 
only  there  was  nowhere  to  fly  to,  and  before  they  could 
decide  her  nurse  arrived. 

"If  you  had  not  told  me  your  first  name,"  said 
Burleson,  "how  could  anybody  make  out  a  check  to 
your  order?" 

"Is  that  why — "  she  began;  and  without  the  slightest 
reason  her  heart  gave  a  curious  little  tremor  of  disap 
pointment. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "it  was  not  imper 
tinence — it  was  only  formality." 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  approvingly,  and  began  to  find  him 
a  trifle  tiresome. 

Meanwhile  he  had  confidently  skipped  to  another 
subject.  "Phosphates  and  nitrogen  are  what  those 
people  need  for  their  farms.  Now  if  you  prepare  your 

150 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

soil — do  your  own  mixing,  of  course — then  begin  with 
red  clover,  and  plough — ' 

Her  gray  eyes  were  so  wide  open  that  he  stopped 
short  to  observe  them;  they  were  so  beautiful  that  his 
observation  continued  until  she  colored  furiously.  It 
was  the  last  straw. 

"The  fire  is  out,  I  think,"  she  said,  calmly,  rising  to 
her  feet;  "my  duty  here  is  ended,  Mr.  Burleson." 

"Oh — are  you  going?"  he  asked,  with  undisguised 
disappointment.  She  regarded  him  in  silence  for  a 
moment.  How  astonishingly  like  that  boy  he  was — 
this  six-foot — 

"Of  course  I  am  going,"  she  said,  and  wondered  why 
she  had  said  "of  course"  with  emphasis.  Then  she 
whistled  to  her  mare. 

"May  I  ride  with  you  to  the  house?"  he  asked, 
humbly. 

She  was  going  to  say  several  things,  all  politely  re 
fusing.  What  she  did  say  was,  "Not  this  time." 

Then  she  was  furious  with  herself,  and  began  to  hate 
him  fiercely,  until  she  saw  something  in  his  face  that 
startled  her.  The  mare  came  up;  she  flung  the  bridle 
over  hastily,  set  foot  to  metal,  and  seated  herself  in  a 
flash.  Then  she  looked  down  at  the  man  beside  her, 
prepared  for  his  next  remark. 

It  came  at  once.  "When  may  we  ride  together,  Miss 
Elliott?" 

She  became  strangely  indulgent.  "You  know,"  she 
said,  as  though  instructing  youth,  "that  the  first  prop 
er  thing  to  do  is  to  call  upon  my  father,  because  he  is 
older  than  you,  and  he  is  physically  unable  to  make 
the  first  call." 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Then  by  Wednesday  we  may  ride?"  he  inquired,  so 
guilessly  that  she  broke  into  a  peal  of  delicious  laughter. 

"How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Burleson?     Ten?" 

"I  feel  younger,"  he  said. 

"So  do  I,"  she  said.  "I  feel  like  a  little  girl  in  a 
muslin  gown."  Two  spots  of  color  tinted  her  cheeks. 
He  had  never  seen  such  beauty  in  human  guise,  and 
he  came  very  near  saying  so.  Something  in  the  aro 
matic  mountain  air  was  tempting  her  to  recklessness. 
Amazed,  exhilarated  by  the  temptation,  she  sat  there 
looking  down  at  him ;  and  her  smile  was  perilously  inno 
cent  and  sweet. 

"Once,"  she  said,  "I  knew  a  boy — like  you — when  I 
wore  a  muslin  frock,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  him. 
He  was  extremely  silly." 

"Do  you  remember  only  silly  people?" 

"I  can't  forget  them;  I  try." 

"Please  don't  try  any  more,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  still  smiling.  She  gazed  off 
through  the  forest,  where  the  men  were  going  home, 
shovels  shouldered,  the  blades  of  axe  and  spade  blood- 
red  in  the  sunset  light. 

How  long  they  stood  there  she  scarcely  reckoned, 
until  a  clear  primrose  light  crept  in  among  the  trees, 
and  the  evening  mist  rose  from  an  unseen  pond,  floating 
through  the  dimmed  avenues  of  pines. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  gathered  bridle,  hesitated, 
then  held  out  her  ungloved  hand. 

Galloping  homeward,  the  quick  pressure  of  his  hand 
still  burning  her  palm,  she  swept  along  in  a  maze  of 
disordered  thought.  And  being  by  circumstances, 
though  not  by  inclination,  an  orderly  young  woman, 

152 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

she  attempted  a  mental  reorganization.  This  she  com 
pleted  as  she  wheeled  her  mare  into  the  main  forest 
road;  and,  her  happy,  disordered  thoughts  rearranged 
with  a  layer  of  cold  logic  to  quiet  them,  reaction  came 
swiftly;  her  cheeks  burned  when  she  remembered  her 
own  attitude  of  half -accepted  intimacy  with  this  stranger. 
How  did  he  regard  her?  How  cheaply  did  he  already 
hold  her — this  young  man  idling  here  in  the  forest  for 
his  own  pleasure? 

But  she  had  something  more  important  on  hand 
than  the  pleasures  of  remorseful  cogitation  as  she  rode 
up  to  the  store  and  drew  bridle,  where  in  their  shirt 
sleeves  the  prominent  citizens  were  gathered.  She  be 
gan  to  speak  immediately.  She  did  not  mince  matters; 
she  enumerated  them  by  name,  dwelt  coldly  upon  the 
law  governing  arson,  and  told  them  exactly  where  they 
stood. 

She  was,  by  courtesy  of  long  residence,  one  of  them. 
She  taught  their  children,  she  gave  them  pills  and  pow 
ders,  she  had  stood  by  them  even  when  they  had  the 
law  against  them  —  stood  by  them  loyally  and  in  the 
very  presence  of  Griert,  fencing  with  him  at  every  move, 
combating  his  brutality  with  deadly  intelligence. 

They  collapsed  under  her  superior  knowledge;  they 
trusted  her,  fawned  on  her,  whined  when  she  rebuked 
them,  carried  themselves  more  decently  for  a  day  or 
two  when  she  dropped  a  rare  word  of  commendation. 
They  respected  her  in  spite  of  the  latent  ruffianly  in 
stinct  which  sneers  at  women;  they  feared  her  as  a 
parish  fears  its  priest;  they  loved  her  as  they  loved 
one  another — which  was  rather  toleration  than  affec 
tion;  the  toleration  of  half -starved  bob-cats. 

153 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

And  now  the  school-marm  had  turned  on  them — 
turned  on  them  with  undisguised  contempt.  Never 
before  had  she  betrayed  contempt  for  them.  She  spoke 
of  cowardice,  too.  That  bewildered  them.  Nobody 
had  ever  suggested  that. 

She  spoke  of  the  shame  of  jail;  they  had  heretofore 
been  rather  proud  of  it  —  all  this  seated  there  in  the 
saddle,  the  light  from  the  store  lamp  shining  full  in  her 
face;  and  they  huddled  there  on  the  veranda,  gaping 
at  her,  stupefied. 

Then  she  suddenly  spoke  of  Burleson,  praising  him, 
endowing  him  with  every  quality  the  nobility  of  her 
own  mind  could  compass.  She  extolled  his  patience 
under  provocation,  bidding  them  to  match  it  with 
equal  patience.  She  bad  them  be  men  in  the  face  of 
this  Burleson,  who  was  a  man;  to  display  a  dignity  to 
compare  with  his;  to  meet  him  squarely,  to  deal  fairly, 
to  make  their  protests  to  his  face  and  not  whisper  crime 
behind  his  back. 

And  that  was  all;  she  swung  her  mare  off  into  the 
darkness;  they  listened  to  the  far  gallop,  uttering  never 
a  word.  But  when  the  last  distant  hoof-stroke  had 
ceased,  Mr.  Burleson 's  life  and  forests  were  safe  in  the 
country.  How  safe  his  game  was  they  themselves  did 
not  exactly  know. 

That  night  Burleson  walked  into  the  store  upon  the 
commonplace  errand  of  buying  a  jack-knife.  It  was 
well  that  he  did  not  send  a  groom ;  better  still  when  he 
explained,  "one  of  the  old-fashioned  kind — the  kind  I 
used  as  a  school-boy." 

"  To  whittle  willow  whistles,"  suggested  oldmanSantry. 
His  voice  was  harsh ;  it  was  an  effort  for  him  to  speak. 

154 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

"That's  the  kind,"  said  Burleson,  picking  out  a  one- 
blader. 

Santry  was  coughing;  presently  Burleson  looked 
around. 

"Find  swallowing  hard?"  he  asked. 

"Swallerin'  ain't  easy.     I  ketched  cold." 

"Let's  see,"  observed  Burleson,  strolling  up  to  him 
and  deliberately  opening  the  old  man's  jaws,  not  only 
to  Santry's  astonishment,  but  to  the  stupefaction  of  the 
community  around  the  unlighted  stove. 

"  Bring  a  lamp  over  here,"  said  the  young  man. 

Somebody  brought  it. 

"Tonsilitis,"  said  Burleson,  briefly.  "I'll  send  you 
something  to-night?" 

"Be  you  a  doctor?"  demanded  Santry,  hoarsely. 

"Was  one.  I'll  fix  you  up.  Go  home;  and  don't 
kiss  your  little  girl.  I'll  drop  in  after  breakfast." 

Two  things  were  respected  in  Fox  Cross-roads — 
death  and  a  doctor — neither  of  which  the  citizens  un 
derstood. 

But  old  man  Santry,  struggling  obstinately  with  his 
awe  of  things  medical,  rasped  out,  "I  ain't  goin'  to  pay 
no  doctor's  bills  fur  a  cold!" 

"Nobody  pays  me  any  more,"  said  Burleson,  laugh 
ing.  "I  only  doctor  people  to  keep  my  hand  in.  Go 
home,  Santry;  you're  sick." 

Mr.  Santry  went,  pausing  at  the  door  to  survey  the 
gathering  with  vacant  astonishment. 

Burleson  paid  for  the  knife,  bought  a  dozen  stamps, 
tasted  the  cheese  and  ordered  a  whole  one,  selected  three 
or  four  barrels  of  apples,  and  turned  on  his  heel  with 
a  curt  good-night. 

155 


"Say!"  broke  out  old  man  Storm  as  he  reached  the 
door;  "you  wasn't  plannin'  to  hev  the  law  on  Abe,  was 
you?" 

"About  that  grass  fire?"  inquired  Burleson,  wheeling 
in  his  tracks.  "Oh  no ;  Abe  lost  his  temper  and  his  belt. 
Any  man's  liable  to  lose  both.  By-the-way  " — he  came 
back  slowly,  buttoning  his  gloves — "about  this  ques 
tion  of  the  game — it  has  occurred  to  me  that  it  can  be 
adjusted  very  simply.  How  many  men  in  this  town 
are  hunters?" 

Nobody  answered  at  first,  inherent  suspicion  making 
them  coy.  However,  it  finally  appeared  that  in  a  com 
munity  of  twenty  families  there  were  some  four  of 
nature's  noblemen  who  "admired  to  go  gunnin'  with  a 
smell-dog." 

"Four,"  repeated  Burleson.  "Now  just  see  how 
simple  it  is.  The  law  allows  thirty  woodcock,  thirty 
partridges,  and  two  deer  to  every  hunter.  That  makes 
eight  deer  and  two  hundred  and  forty  birds  out  of  the 
preserve,  which  is  very  little — if  you  shoot  straight 
enough  to  get  your  limit!"  he  laughed.  "But  it  being 
a  private  preserve,  you'll  do  your  shooting  on  Saturdays, 
and  check  off  your  bag  at  the  gate  of  the  lodge — so  that 
you  won't  make  any  mistakes  in  going  over  the  limit." 
He  laughed  again,  and  pointed  at  a  lean  hound  lying 
under  the  counter. 

"Hounds  are  barred;  only  'smell-dogs'  admitted,"  he 
said.  "And" — he  became  quietly  serious—"!  count  on 
each  one  of  you  four  men  to  aid  my  patrol  in  keeping 
the  game-laws  and  the  fire-laws  and  every  forest  law  on 
the  statutes.  And  I  count  on  you  to  take  ovt  enough 
fox  and  mink  pelts  to  pay  me  for  my  game — and  you 

156 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

yourselves  for  your  labor;  for  though  it  is  my  game  by 
the  law  of  the  land,  what  is  mine  is  no  source  of  pleas 
ure  to  me  unless  I  share  it.  Let  us  work  together  to 
keep  the  streams  and  coverts  and  forests  well  stocked. 
Good-night." 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  evening  Abe  Storm  slunk 
into  the  store,  and  the  community  rose  and  fell  on  him 
and  administered  the  most  terrific  beating  that  a  husky 
young  man  ever  emerged  from  alive. 


Ill 

In  October  the  maple  leaves  fell,  the  white  birches 
showered  the  hill-sides  with  crumpled  gold,  the  ruffed 
grouse  put  on  its  downy  stockings,  the  great  hare's 
flanks  became  patched  with  white.  Cold  was  surely 
coming;  somewhere  behind  the  blue  north  the  Great 
White  Winter  stirred  in  its  slumber. 

As  yet,  however,  the  oaks  and  beeches  still  wore  their 
liveries  of  rustling  amber,  the  short  grass  on  hill-side 
pastures  was  intensely  green,  flocks  of  thistle-birds  dis 
guised  in  demure  russet  passed  in  wavering  flight  from 
thicket  to  thicket,  and  over  all  a  hot  sun  blazed  in  a 
sky  of  sapphire,  linking  summer  and  autumn  together 
in  the  magnificence  of  a  perfect  afternoon. 

Miss  Elliott,  riding  beside  Burleson,  had  fallen  more 
silent  than  usual.  She  no  longer  wore  her  sombrero 
and  boy's  clothes;  hat,  habit,  collar,  scarf — ay,  the  tiny 
polished  spur  on  her  polished  boot — were  eloquent  of 
Fifth  Avenue;  and  she  rode  a  side-saddle  made  by 
Harrock. 

157 


YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Alas!  alas!"  said  Burleson;  "where  is  the  rose  of 
yesterday?" 

"If  you  continue  criticising  my  habit — "  she  began, 
impatiently. 

"No — not  for  a  minute!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  men 
tion  your  habit  or  your  stock — 

"You  are  always  bewailing  that  soiled  sombrero  and 
those  unspeakable  breeches — " 

"I  never  said  a  word — 

"You  did.  You  said,  'Where  is  the  rose  of  yester 
day?'" 

"I  meant  the  wild  rose.  You  are  a  cultivated  rose 
now,  you  know — " 

She  turned  her  face  at  an  angle  which  left  him  noth 
ing  to  look  at  but  one  small,  close-set  ear. 

"May  I  see  a  little  more  of  your  face  by-and-by?" 
he  asked. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Mr.  Burleson." 

"If  I'm  not,  I'm  afraid  you'll  forget  me." 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while ;  he  removed 
his  cap  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket. 

"It's  good  for  my  hair,"  he  commented,  aloud;  "I'm 
not  married,  you  see,  and  it  behooves  a  man  to  keep 
what  hair  he  has  until  he's  married." 

As  she  said  nothing,  he  went  on,  reflectively:  "Emi 
nent  authorities  have  computed  that  a  man  with  lots  of 
hair  on  his  head  stands  thirty  and  nineteen-hundredths 
better  chance  with  a  girl  than  a  man  who  has  but  a 
scanty  crop.  A  man  with  curly  hair  has  eighty-seven 
chances  in  a  hundred,  a  man  with  wavy  hair  has  seventy- 
nine,  a  man — 

"Mr.  Burleson,"  she  said,  exasperated,  "I  am  utterly 

158 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

at  a  loss  to  understand  what  it  is  in  you  that  I  find  at 
tractive  enough  to  endure  you." 

"Seventy-nine,"  he  ventured — "my  hair  is  wavy — 

She  touched  her  mare  and  galloped  forward,  and  he 
followed  through  the  yellow  sunshine,  attendant  always 
on  her  caprice,  ready  for  any  sudden  whim.  So  when 
she  wheeled  to  the  left  and  lifted  her  mare  over  a  snake- 
fence,  he  was  ready  to  follow;  and  together  they  tore 
away  across  a  pasture,  up  a  hill  all  purple  with  plumy 
bunch-grass,  and  forward  to  the  edge  of  a  gravel-pit, 
where  she  whirled  her  mare  about,  drew  bridle,  and 
flung  up  a  warning  hand  just  in  time.  His  escape  was 
narrower;  his  horse's  hind  hoofs  loosened  a  section  of 
undermined  sod;  the  animal  stumbled,  sank  back, 
strained  with  every  muscle,  and  dragged  himself  des 
perately  forward;  while  behind  him  the  entire  edge  of 
the  pit  gave  way,  crashing  and  clattering  into  the 
depths  below. 

They  were  both  rather  white  when  they  faced  each 
other. 

"Don't  take  such  a  risk  again,"  he  said,  harshly. 

"I  won't,"  she  answered,  with  dry  lips;  but  she  was 
not  thinking  of  herself.  Suddenly  she  became  very 
humble,  guiding  her  mare  alongside  of  his  horse,  and 
in  a  low  voice  asked  him  to  pardon  her  folly. 

And,  not  thinking  of  himself,  he  scored  her  for  the 
risk  she  had  taken,  alternately  reproaching,  arguing, 
bullying,  pleading,  after  the  fashion  of  men.  And,  still 
shaken  by  the  peril  she  had  so  wilfully  sought,  he  asked 
her  not  to  do  it  again,  for  his  sake— an  informal  request 
that  she  accepted  with  equal  informality  and  a  slow 
droop  of  her  head. 

159 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Never  had  she  received  such  a  thorough,  such  a  satis 
fying  scolding.  There  was  not  one  word  too  much — 
every  phrase  refreshed  her,  every  arbitrary  intonation 
sang  in  her  ears  like  music.  And  so  far  not  one  selfish 
note  had  been  struck. 

She  listened,  eyes  downcast,  face  delicately  flushed — 
listened  until  it  pleased  him  to  make  an  end,  which  he 
did  with  amazing  lack  of  skill: 

"What  do  you  suppose  life  would  hold  for  me  with 
you  at  the  bottom  of  that  gravel-pit?" 

The  selfish  note  rang  out,  unmistakable,  imperative — 
the  clearest,  sweetest  note  of  all  to  her.  But  the  ques 
tion  was  no  question  and  required  no  answer.  Besides, 
he  had  said  enough — just  enough. 

"Let  us  ride  home,"  she  said,  realizing  that  they  were 
on  dangerous  ground  again — dangerous  as  the  gravel-hill. 

And  a  few  moments  later  she  caught  a  look  in  his  face 
that  disconcerted  and  stampeded  her.  "It  was  partly 
your  own  fault,  Mr.  Burleson.  Why  does  not  your 
friend  take  away  the  mare  he  has  bought  and  paid  for?" 

"Partly — my — fault!"  he  repeated,  wrathfully. 

"Can  you  not  let  a  woman  have  that  much  consola 
tion?"  she  said,  lifting  her  gray  eyes  to  his  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Do  you  insist  on  being  the  only  and  perfect 
embodiment  of  omniscience?" 

He  said,  rather  sulkily,  that  he  didn't  think  he  was 
omniscient,  and  she  pretended  to  doubt  it,  until  the 
badinage  left  him  half  vexed,  half  laughing,  but  on  per 
fectly  safe  ground  once  more. 

Indeed,  they  were  already  riding  over  the  village 
bridge,  and  he  said:  "I  want  to  stop  and  see  Santry's 
child  for  a  moment.  Will  you  wait  ?" 

160 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

So  he  dismounted  and  entered  the  weather-battered 
abode  of  Santry;  and  she  looked  after  him  with  an  ex 
pression  on  her  face  that  he  had  never  surprised  there. 

Meanwhile,  along  the  gray  village  thoroughfare  the 
good  folk  peeped  out  at  her  where  she  sat  her  mare, 
unconscious,  deep  in  maiden  meditation. 

She  had  done  much  for  her  people;  she  was  doing 
much.  Fiction  might  add  that  they  adored  her,  wor 
shipped  her  very  footprints!  —  echoes  all  of  ancient 
legends  of  a  grateful  tenantry  that  the  New  World  be 
lieves  in  but  never  saw. 

After  a  little  while  Burleson  emerged  from  Santry's 
house,  gravely  returning  the  effusive  adieus  of  the 
family. 

"You  are  perfectly  welcome,"  he  said,  annoyed;  "it 
is  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to  do  anything  for  children." 

And  as  he  mounted  he  said  to  Miss  Elliott,  "I've 
fixed  it,  I  think." 

"Fixed  her  hip  ?" 

" No;  arranged  for  her  to  go  to  New  York.  They  do 
that  sort  of  thing  there.  I  see  no  reason  why  the  child 
should  not  walk." 

" Oh,  do  you  think  so ?"  she  exclaimed,  softly.  "You 
make  me  very  happy,  Mr.  Burleson." 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  face  for  just  the  space  of  a 
second. 

"And  you  make  me  happy,"  he  said. 

She  laughed,  apparently  serene  and  self-possessed, 
and  turned  up  the  hill,  he  following  a  fraction  of  a 
length  behind. 

In  grassy  hollows  late  dandelions  starred  the  green 
it  161 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

with  gold,  the  red  alder's  scarlet  berries  flamed  along 
the  road-side  thickets;  beyond,  against  the  sky,  acres 
of  dead  mullein  stalks  stood  guard  above  the  hollow 
scrub. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  over  her  shoulder,  "that 
there  is  a  rose  in  bloom  in  our  garden?" 

"Is  there?"  he  asked,  without  surprise. 

"Doesn't  it  astonish  you?"  she  demanded.  "Roses 
don't  bloom  up  here  in  October." 

"Oh  yes,  they  do,"  he  muttered. 

At  the  gate  they  dismounted,  he  silent,  preoccupied, 
she  uneasily  alert  and  outwardly  very  friendly. 

"How  warm  it  is!"  she  said;  "it  will  be  like  a  night 
in  June  with  the  moon  up — and  that  rose  in  the  garden. 
.  .  .  You  say  that  you  are  coming  this  evening?" 

"Of  course.     It  is  your  last  evening." 

"Our  last  evening,"  she  repeated,  thoughtfully.  .  .  . 
"You  said  .  .  ." 

"I  said  that  I  was  going  South,  too.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  am  going." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  observed,  coolly.  And  after  a 
moment  she  handed  him  the  bridle  of  her  mare,  saying, 
"You  will  see  that  she  is  forwarded  when  your  friend 
asks  for  her?" 

"Yes." 

She  looked  at  the  mare,  then  walked  up  slowly  and 
put  her  arms  around  the  creature's  silky  neck.  "Good 
bye,"  she  said,  and  kissed  her.  Turning  half  defiantly 
on  Burleson,  she  smiled,  touching  her  wet  lashes  with 
her  gloved  wrist. 

"The  Arab  lady  and  the  faithful  gee-gee,"  she  said. 
"I  know  The  Witch  doesn't  care,  but  I  can't  help 

162 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

loving  her.  .  .  .  Are  you  properly  impressed  with  my 
grief?" 

There  was  that  in  Burleson's  eyes  that  sobered  her; 
she  instinctively  laid  her  hand  on  the  gate,  looking  at 
him  with  a  face  which  had  suddenly  grown  colorless  and 
expressionless. 

"Miss  Elliott,"  he  said,  "will  you  marry  me?" 

The  tingling  silence  lengthened,  broken  at  intervals 
by  the  dull  stamping  of  the  horses. 

After  a  moment  she  moved  leisurely  past  him,  bend 
ing  her  head  as  she  entered  the  yard,  and  closing  the 
gate  slowly  behind  her.  Then  she  halted,  one  gloved 
hand  resting  on  the  closed  gate,  and  looked  at  him 
again. 

There  is  an  awkwardness  in  men  that  women  like; 
there  is  a  gaucherie  that  women  detest.  She  gazed 
silently  at  this  man,  considering  him  with  a  serenity 
that  stunned  him  speechless. 

Yet  all  the  while  her  brain  was  one  vast  confusion, 
and  the  tumult  of  her  own  heart  held  her  dumb.  Even 
the  man  himself  appeared  as  a  blurred  vision ;  echoes  of 
lost  voices  dinned  in  her  ears — the  voices  of  children — 
of  a  child  whom  she  had  known  when  she  wore  muslin 
frocks  to  her  knees — a  boy  who  might  once  have  been 
this  man  before  her — this  tall,  sunburned  young  man, 
awkward,  insistent,  artless — oh,  entirely  without  art  in 
a  wooing  which  alternately  exasperated  and  thrilled 
her.  And  now  his  awkwardness  had  shattered  the 
magic  of  the  dream  and  left  her  staring  at  reality — 
without  warning,  without  the  courtesy  of  a  "garde  a 
vous!" 

And  his  answer?  He  was  waiting  for  his  answer. 

163 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

But  men  are  not  gods  to  demand! — not  highwaymen  to 
bar  the  way  with  a  "Stand  and  deliver!"  And  an 
answer  is  a  precious  thing — a  gem  of  untold  value.  It 
was  hers  to  give,  hers  to  withhold,  hers  to  defend. 

"You  will  call  on  us  to  say  good-bye  this  evening?" 
she  asked,  steadying  her  voice. 

A  deep  color  stung  his  face;  he  bowed,  standing  stiff 
and  silent  until  she  had  passed  through  the  open  door 
of  the  veranda.  Then,  half  blind  with  his  misery,  he 
mounted,  wheeled,  and  galloped  away,  The  Witch  clat 
tering  stolidly  at  his  stirrup. 

Already  the  primrose  light  lay  over  hill  and  valley; 
already  the  delicate  purple  net  of  night  had  snared  for 
est  and  marsh;  and  the  wild  ducks  were  stringing  across 
the  lakes,  and  the  herons  had  gone  to  the  forest,  and 
plover  answered  plover  from  swamp  to  swamp,  plain 
tive,  querulous,  in  endless  reiteration — "Lost!  lost! 
she's  lost — she's  lost — she's  lost!" 

But  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  so 
interpreted  the  wild  crying  of  the  killdeer  plover. 

There  was  a  gown  that  had  been  packed  at  the  bot 
tom  of  a  trunk;  it  was  a  fluffy,  rather  shapeless  mound 
of  filmy  stuff  to  look  at  as  it  lay  on  the  bed.  As  it  hung 
upon  the  perfect  figure  of  a  girl  of  twenty  it  was,  in  the 
words  of  the  maid,  "  a  dhream  an'  a  blessed  vision,  glory 
be!"  It  ought  to  have  been;  it  was  brand-new. 

At  dinner,  her  father  coming  in  on  crutches,  stared 
at  his  daughter — stared  as-  though  the  apparition  of  his 
dead  wife  had  risen  to  guide  him  to  his  chair;  and  his 
daughter  laughed  across  the  little  table — she  scarcely 
knew  why — laughed  at  his  surprise,  at  his  little  tribute 

164 


THERE    WAS    THAT    IN    BURLESOX  S    EYES    THAT    SOBERED    HER 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

to  her  beauty — laughed  with  the  quick  tears  brimming 
in  her  eyes. 

Then,  after  a  silence,  and  thinking  of  her  mother,  she 
spoke  of  Burleson ;  and  after  a  while  of  the  coming  jour 
ney,  and  their  new  luck  which  had  come  up  with  the 
new  moon  in  September — a  luck  which  had  brought  a 
purchaser  for  the  mare,  another  for  the  land — all  of  it, 
swamp,  timber,  barrens  —  every  rod,  house,  barn,  gar 
den,  and  stock. 

Again  leaning  her  bare  elbows  on  the  cloth,  she  asked 
her  father  who  the  man  could  be  that  desired  such  prop 
erty.  But  her  father  shook  his  head,  repeating  the 
name,  which  was,  I  believe,  Smith.  And  that,  includ 
ing  the  check,  was  all  they  had  ever  learned  of  this  in 
vestor  who  had  wanted  what  they  did  not  want,  in  the 
nick  of  time. 

"  If  he  thinks  there  is  gas  or  oil  here  he  is  to  be  pitied," 
said  her  father.  "I  wrote  him  and  warned  him." 

"I  think  he  replied  that  he  knew  his  own  business," 
said  the  girl. 

"I  hope  he  does;  the  price  is  excessive — out  of  all 
reason.  I  trust  he  knows  of  something  in  the  land  that 
may  justify  his  investment." 

After  a  moment  she  said,  "Do  you  really  think  we 
may  be  able  to  buy  a  little  place  in  Florida — a  few 
orange-trees  and  a  house?" 

His  dreamy  eyes  smiled  across  at  her. 

"Thank  God!"  she  thought,  answering  his  smile. 

There  was  no  dampness  in  the  air;  she  aided  him  to 
the  garden,  where  he  resumed  his  crutches  and  hobbled 
as  far  as  the  wonderful  bush  that  bore  a  single  belated 
rose. 

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A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

'In  the  South,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "there  is 
no  lack  of  these.  ...  I  think — I  think  all  will  be  well  in 
the  South." 

He  tired  easily,  and  she  helped  him  back  to  his 
study,  where  young  Burleson  presently  found  them, 
strolling  in  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  dinner- 
jacket. 

His  exchange  of  greetings  with  Miss  Elliott  was  quiet 
ly  formal;  with  her  father  almost  tender.  It  was  one 
of  the  things  she  cared  most  for  in  him ;  and  she  walked 
to  the  veranda,  leaving  the  two  men  alone — the  man 
and  the  shadow  of  a  man. 

Once  she  heard  laughter  in  the  room  behind  her; 
and  it  surprised  her,  pacing  the  veranda  there.  Yet 
Burleson  always  brought  a  new  anecdote  to  share  with 
her  father — and  heretofore  he  had  shared  these  with 
her,  too.  But  now! — 

Yet  it  was  by  her  own  choice  she  was  alone  there, 
pacing  the  moonlit  porches. 

The  maid — their  only  servant — brought  a  decanter; 
she  could  hear  the  ring  of  the  glasses,  relics  of  better 
times.  .  .  .  And  now  better  times  were  dawning  again — 
brief,  perhaps,  for  her  father,  yet  welcome  as  Indian 
summer. 

After  a  long  while  Burleson  came  to  the  door,  and  she 
looked  up,  startled. 

"Will  you  sing?     Your  father  asks  it." 

"Won't  you  ask  me,  too,  Mr.  Burleson?" 

"Yes." 

"  But  I  want  to  show  you  my  rose  first.  Will  you 
come? — it  is  just  a  step." 

He  walked  out  into  the  moonlight  with  her;  they 

166 


THE    FIRE-WARDEN 

stood  silently  before  the  bush  which  had  so  capriciously 
bloomed. 

"Now — I  will  sing  for  you,  Mr.  Burleson,"  she  said, 
amiably.  And  they  returned  to  the  house,  finding  not 
a  word  to  say  on  the  way. 

The  piano  was  in  decent  tune;  she  sat  down,  nodding 
across  at  her  father,  and  touched  a  chord  or  two. 

"The  same  song — the  one  your  mother  cared  for," 
murmured  her  father. 

And  she  looked  at  Burleson  dreamily,  then  turned, 
musing  with  bent  head,  sounding  a  note,  a  tentative 
chord.  And  then  she  sang. 

A  dropping  chord,  lingering  like  fragrance  in  the 
room,  a  silence,  and  she  rose,  looking  at  her  father. 
But  he,  dim  eyes  brooding,  lay  back  unconscious  of  all 
save  memories  awakened  by  her  song.  And  presently 
she  moved  across  the  room  to  the  veranda,  stepping  out 
into  the  moonlit  garden  —  knowing  perfectly  well  what 
she  was  doing,  though  her  heart  was  beating  like  a  trip 
hammer,  and  she  heard  the  quick  step  on  the  gravel 
behind  her. 

She  was  busy  with  the  long  stem  of  the  rose  when  he 
came  up ;  she  broke  it  short  and  straightened  up,  smiling 
a  little  greeting,  for  she  could  not  have  spoken  for  her  life. 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  he  asked,  under  his  breath. 

Then  the  slow,  clear  words  came,  "I  cannot." 

"I  love  you,"  he  said,  as  though  he  had  not  heard 
her.  "There  is  nothing  for  me  in  life  without  you; 
from  the  moment  you  came  into  my  life  there  was  noth 
ing  else,  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  but  you — your  love 
liness,  your  beauty,  your  hair,  your  hands,  the  echo  of 
your  voice  haunting  me,  the  memory  of  your  every  step, 

167 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

'your  smile,  the  turn  of  your  head — all  that  I  love  in  you 
— and  all  that  I  worship — your  sweetness,  your  loyalty, 
your  bravery,  your  honor.  Give  me  all  this  to  guard, 
to  adore — try  to  love  me;  forget  my  faults,  forgive  all 
that  I  lack.  I  know — /  know  what  I  am — what  little  I 
have  to  offer  —  but  it  is  all  that  I  am,  all  that  I  have. 
Constance!  Constance!  Must  you  refuse?" 

"Did  I  refuse?"  she  faltered.  "I  don't  know  why  I 
did." 

With  bare  arm  bent  back  and  hand  pressed  over  the 
hand  that  held  her  waist  imprisoned,  she  looked  up  into 
his  eyes.  Then  their  lips  met. 

"Say  it,"  he  whispered. 

"  Say  it  ?  Ah,  I  do  say  it :  I  love  you — I  love  you.  I 
said  it  years  ago — when  you  were  a  boy  and  I  wore 
muslin  gowns  above  my  knees.  Did  you  think  I  had 
not  guessed  it  ?  ...  And  you  told  father  to-night — you 
told  him,  because  I  never  heard  him  laugh  that  way 
before.  .  .  .  And  you  are  Jack — my  boy  that  I  loved  when 
I  was  ten — my  boy  lover?  Ah,  Jack,  I  was  never  de 
ceived." 

He  drew  her  closer  and  lifted  her  flushed  face.  "I 
told  your  father — yes.  And  I  told  him  that  we  would 
go  South  with  him." 

"You — you  dared  assume  that! — before  I  had  con 
sented!"  she  cried,  exasperated. 

"Why — why,  I  couldn't  contemplate  anything  else." 

Half  laughing,  half  angry,  she  strained  to  release  his 
arm,  then  desisted,  breathless,  gray  eyes  meeting  his. 

"No  other  man,"  she  breathed—  "no  other  man — 
There  was  a  silence,  then  her  arms  crept  up  closer,  en 
circling  his  neck.     "There  is  no  other  man,"  she  sighed. 

168 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 


A  WARM  October  was  followed  by  a  muggy,  wet 
November.  The  elm  leaves  turned  yellow  but  did 
not  fall ;  the  ash-trees  lighted  up  the  woods  like  gigantic 
lanterns  set  in  amber;  single  branches  among  the  maples 
slowly  crimsoned.  As  yet  the  dropping  of  acorns  rarely 
broke  the  forest  silence  in  Sagamore  County,  although 
the  blue-jays  screamed  in  the  alders  and  crows  were 
already  gathering  for  their  annual  caucus. 

Because  there  had  been  as  yet  no  frost  the  partridges 
still  lurked  deep  in  the  swamps,  and  the  woodcock 
skulked,  shunning  the  white  birches  until  the  ice-storms 
in  the  north  should  set  their  comrades  moving  south 
ward. 

There  was  little  doing  in  the  feathered  world.  Of 
course  the  swallows  had  long  since  departed,  and  with 
the  advent  of  the  blue-jays  and  golden-winged  wood 
peckers  a  few  heavy -pinioned  hawks  had  appeared,  wheel 
ing  all  day  over  the  pine-woods,  calling  querulously. 

Then  one  still  night  the  frost  silvered  the  land,  and 
the  raccoons  whistled  from  the  beach-woods  on  the 
ridges,  and  old  man  Jocelyn's  daughter  crept  from  her 
chilly  bed  to  the  window  which  framed  a  staring,  frosty 
moon. 

171 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Through  the  silence  she  heard  a  whisper  like  the  dis 
creet  rustle  of  silken  hangings.  It  was  the  sound  of 
leaves  falling  through  the  darkness.  She  peered  into 
the  night,  where,  unseen,  the  delicate  fingers  of  the  frost 
were  touching  a  million  leaves,  and  as  each  little  leaf 
was  summoned  she  heard  it  go,  whispering  obedience. 

Now  the  moonlight  seemed  to  saturate  her  torn,  thin 
night-gown  and  lie  like  frost  on  her  body;  and  she  crept 
to  the  door  of  her  room,  shivering,  and  called,  "  Father!'' 

He  answered  heavily,  and  the  bed  in  the  next  room 
creaked. 

"There  is  a  frost,"  she  said;  "shall  I  load  the  car 
tridges?" 

She  could  hear  him  stumble  out  of  bed  and  grope  for 
the  window. 

Presently  he  yawned  loudly  and  she  heard  him  tum 
ble  back  into  bed. 

"There  won't  be  no  flight  to-night,"  he  said;  "the 
birds  won't  move  for  twenty-four  hours.  Go  to  bed, 
Jess." 

"  But  there  are  sure  to  be  a  few  droppers  in  to-night," 
she  protested. 

"Go  to  bed,"  he  said,  shortly. 

After  a  moment  she  began  again:  "I  don't  mind  load 
ing  a  dozen  shells,  dad." 

"What  for?"  he  said.  "It's  my  fault  I  ain't  ready. 
I  didn't  want  you  foolin'  with  candles  around  powder 
and  shot." 

"But  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  time  to-morrow," 
she  urged,  with  teeth  chattering.  "You  know,"  and 
she  laughed  a  mirthless  laugh,  "it's  Thanksgiving  Day, 
and  two  woodcock  are  as  good  as  a  turkey." 

172 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

What  he  said  was,  "Turkey  be  darned!"  but,  never 
theless,  she  knew  he  was  pleased,  so  she  said  no  more. 

There  was  a  candle  on  her  bureau;  she  lighted  it  with 
stiff  fingers,  then  trotted  about  over  the  carpetless 
floor,  gathering  up  the  loading-tools  and  flimsy  paper 
shells,  the  latter  carefully  hoarded  after  having  already 
served. 

Sitting  there  at  the  bedside,  bare  feet  wrapped  in  a 
ragged  quilt,  and  a  shawl  around  her  shoulders,  she 
picked  out  the  first  shell  and  placed  it  in  the  block. 
With  one  tap  she  forced  out  the  old  primer,  inserted  a 
new  one,  and  drove  it  in.  Next  she  plunged  the  rusty 
measuring-cup  into  the  black  powder  and  poured  the 
glistening  grains  into  the  shell,  three  drams  and  a  half. 
On  this  she  drove  in  two  wads.  Now  the  shell  was  ready 
for  an  ounce  and  an  eighth  of  number  nine  shot,  and 
she  measured  it  and  poured  it  in  with  practised  hand. 
Then  came  the  last  wad,  a  quick  twirl  of  the  crimper, 
and  the  first  shell  lay  loaded  on  the  pillow. 

Before  she  finished  her  hands  were  numb  and  her 
little  feet  like  frozen  marble.  But  at  last  two  dozen 
cartridges  were  ready,  and  she  gathered  them  up  in  the 
skirt  of  her  night-gown  and  carried  them  to  her  father's 
door. 

"Here  they  are,"  she  said,  rolling  them  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor;  and,  happy  at  his  sleepy  protest,  she  crept 
back  to  bed  again,  chilled  to  the  knees. 

At  dawn  the  cold  was  intense,  but  old  man  Jocelyn, 
descending  the  dark  stairway  gun  in  hand,  found  his 
daughter  lifting  the  coffee-pot  from  the  stove. 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Jess,"  he  said.  Then  he  began 
to  unwind  the  flannel  cover  from  his  gun.  In  the 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

frosty  twilight  outside  a  raccoon  whistled  from  the 
alders. 

When  he  had  unrolled  and  wiped  his  gun  he  drew  a 
shaky  chair  to  the  pine  table  and  sat  down.  His  daugh 
ter  watched  him,  and  when  he  bent  his  gray  head  she 
covered  her  eyes  with  one  delicate  hand. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "it  being  Thanksgiving,  I  do  hereby 
give  Thee  a  few  extry  thanks."  And  "Amen"  they 
said  together. 

Jess  stood  warming  herself  with  her  back  to  the  stove, 
watching  her  father  busy  with  his  bread  and  coffee. 
Her  childish  face  was  not  a  sad  one,  yet  in  her  rare 
smile  there  was  a  certain  beauty  which  sorrow  alone 
brings  to  young  lips  and  eyes. 

Old  man  Jocelyn  stirred  his  sugarless  coffee  and  broke 
off  a  lump  of  bread. 

"  One  of  young  Gordon's  keepers  was  here  yesterday," 
he  said,  abruptly. 

His  daughter  slowly  raised  her  head  and  twisted  her 
dishevelled  hair  into  a  great,  soft  knot.  "What  did 
Mr.  Gordon's  keeper  want?"  she  asked,  indifferently. 

"Why,  some  one,"  said  old  man  Jocelyn,  with  an  in 
describable  sneer- — "some  real  mean  man  has  been  and 
shot  out  them  swales  along  Brier  Brook." 

"  Did  you  do  it  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Why,  come  to  think,  I  guess  I  did,"  said  her  father, 
grinning. 

"It  is  your  right,"  said  his  daughter,  quietly;  "the 
Brier  Brook  swales  were  yours." 

"  Before  young  Gordon's  pa  swindled  me  out  o'  them," 
observed  Jocelyn,  tearing  off  more  bread.  "And,"  he 
added,  "even  old  Gordon  never  dared  post  his  land 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

in  them  days.  If  he  had  he'd  been  tarred  'n'  feath 
ered." 

His  daughter  looked  grave,  then  a  smile  touched  her 
eyes,  and  she  said:  "I  hear,  daddy,  that  young  Gordon 
gives  you  cattle  and  seeds  and  ploughs." 

Jocelyn  wheeled  around  like  a  flash.  "Who  told  you 
that?"  he  demanded,  sharply. 

The  incredulous  smile  in  her  eyes  died  out.  She 
stared  at  him  blankly. 

"Why,  of  course  it  wasn't  true,"  she  said. 

"Who  told  you?"  he  cried,  angrily. 

"Murphy  told  me,"  she  stammered.  "Of  course  it 
is  a  lie!  of  course  he  lied,  father!  I  told  him  he  lied — " 

With  horror  in  her  eyes  she  stared  at  her  father,  but 
Jocelyn  sat  sullenly  brooding  over  his  coffee-cup  and 
tearing  bit  after  bit  from  the  crust  in  his  fist. 

"Has  young  Gordon  ever  said  that  to  you?"  he  de 
manded,  at  length. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  to  him  in  all  my  life,"  answered 
the  girl,  with  a  dry  sob.  "  If  I  had  known  that  he  gave 
things  to — to — us — I  should  have  died — " 

Jocelyn's  eyes  were  averted.  "How  dare  he!"  she 
went  on,  trembling.  "  We  are  not  beggars !  If  we  have 
nothing,  it  is  his  father's  shame — and  his  shame!  Oh, 
father,  father!  I  never  thought — I  never  for  one  in 
stant  thought — " 

"Don't,  Jess!"  said  Jocelyn,  hoarsely. 

Then  he  rose  and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the  table.  "  I 
took  his  cows  and  his  ploughs  and  his  seed.  What  of 
it  ?  He  owes  me  more!  I  took  them  for  your  sake — to 
try  to  find  a  living  in  this  bit  of  flint  and  sand — for  you. 
Birds  are  scarce.  They've  passed  a  law  against  market- 

175 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

shooting.  Every  barrel  of  birds  I  send  out  may  mean 
prison.  I've  lived  my  life  as  a  market -hunter;  I  ain't 
fitted  for  farming.  But  you  were  growing,  and  you  need 
schooling,  and  between  the  game-warden  and  young 
Gordon  I  couldn't  keep  you  decent — so  I  took  his 
damned  cattle  and  I  dug  in  the  ground.  What  of  it!" 
he  ended,  violently.  And,  as  she  did  not  speak,  he  gave 
voice  to  the  sullen  rage  within  him — "I  took  his  cattle 
and  his  ploughs  as  I  take  his  birds.  They  ain't  his  to 
give;  they're  mine  to  take — the  birds  are.  I  guess 
when  God  set  the  first  hen  partridge  on  her  nest  in 
Sagamore  woods  he  wasn't  thinking  particularly  about 
breeding  them  for  young  Gordon!" 

He  picked  up  his  gun  and  started  heavily  for  the  door. 
His  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  his  daughter  as  she  drew 
the  frosty  latch  for  him.  There  was  a  pause,  then  he 
pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes  with  a  long  grunt. 

"Dear  dad,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"I  guess,"  he  observed  unsteadily,  "you're  ashamed 
of  me,  Jess." 

She  put  both  arms  around  his  neck  and  laid  her  head 
against  his. 

"I  think  as  you  do,"  she  said;  "God  did  not  create 
the  partridges  for  Mr.  Gordon — but,  darling  dad,  you 
will  never,  never  again  take  even  one  grain  of  buck 
wheat  from  him,  will  you?" 

"His  father  robbed  mine,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  a  surly 
shrug.  But  she  was  content  with  his  answer  and  his 
rough  kiss,  and  when  he  had  gone  out  into  the  gray 
morning,  calling  his  mongrel  setter  from  its  kennel,  she 
went  back  up  the  stairs  and  threw  herself  on  her  icy 
bed.  But  her  little  face  was  hot  with  tearless  shame, 

176 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

and  misery  numbed  her  limbs,  and  she  cried  out  in  her 
heart  for  God  to  punish  old  Gordon's  sin  from  genera 
tion  to  generation — meaning  that  young  Gordon  should 
suffer  for  the  sins  of  his  father.  Yet  through  her  tort 
ure  and  the  burning  anger  of  her  prayer  ran  a  silent 
undercurrent,  a  voiceless  call  for  mercy  upon  her  and 
upon  all  she  loved,  her  father  and — young  Gordon. 

After  a  while  she  fell  asleep  dreaming  of  young  Gor 
don.  She  had  never  seen  him  except  Sundays  in  church, 
but  now  she  dreamed  he  came  into  her  pew  and  offered 
her  a  hymn-book  of  ivory  and  silver;  and  she  dreamed 
they  sang  from  it  together  until  the  church  thrilled  with 
their  united  voices.  But  the  song  they  sang  seemed  to 
pain  her,  and  her  voice  hurt  her  throat.  His  voice,  too, 
grew  harsh  and  piercing,  and — she  awoke  with  the  sun 
in  her  eyes  and  the  strident  cries  of  the  blue-jays  in  her 
ears. 

Under  her  window  she  heard  somebody  moving.  It 
was  her  father,  already  returned,  and  he  stood  by  the 
door,  drawing  and  plucking  half  a  dozen  woodcock. 

When  she  had  bathed  and  dressed,  she  found  the 
birds  on  the  kitchen-table  ready  for  the  oven,  and  she 
set  about  her  household  duties  with  a  glance  through 
the  window  where  Jocelyn,  crouching  on  the  bank  of 
the  dark  stream,  was  examining  his  set-lines  one  by 
one. 

The  sun  hung  above  the  forest,  sending  fierce  streams 
of  light  over  the  flaming,  frost-ripened  foliage.  A  belt 
of  cloud  choked  the  mountain  gorge  in  the  north;  the 
alders  were  smoking  with  chilly  haze. 

As  she  passed  across  the  yard  towards  the  spring, 
bucket  in  hand,  her  father  called  out:  "I  guess  we'll 

177 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

keep   Thanksgiving,   Jess,   after  all.     I've   got   a  five- 
pounder  here!" 

He  held  up  a  slim,  gold-and-green  pickerel,  then  flung 
the  fish  on  the  ground  with  the  laugh  of  a  boy.  It  was 
always  so ;  the  forest  and  the  pursuit  of  wild  creatures  re 
newed  his  life.  He  was  born  for  it ;  he  had  lived  a  hunter 
and  a  roamer  of  the  woods ;  he  bade  fair  to  die  a  poacher 
— which,  perhaps,  is  no  sin  in  the  eyes  of  Him  who  de 
signed  the  pattern  of  the  partridge's  wings  and  gave 
two  coats  to  the  northern  hare. 

His  daughter  watched  him  with  a  strained  smile.  In 
her  bitterness  against  Gordon,  now  again  in  the  ascend 
ant,  she  found  no  peace  of  mind. 

"Dad,"  she  said,  "I  set  six  deadfalls  yesterday.  I 
guess  I'll  go  and  look  at  them." 

"If  you  line  them  too  plainly,  Gordon's  keepers  will 
save  you  your  trouble,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  I'll  go  now,"  said  the  girl.  Her 
eyes  began  to  sparkle  and  the  wings  of  her  delicate  nos 
trils  quivered  as  she  looked  at  the  forest  on  the  hill. 

Jocelyn  watched  her.  He  noted  the  finely  moulded 
head,  the  dainty  nose,  the  clear,  fearless  eyes.  It  was 
the  sensitive  head  of  a  free  woman — a  maid  of  windy 
hill-sides  and  of  silent  forests.  He  saw  the  faint  quiver 
of  the  nostril,  and  he  thought  of  the  tremor  that  twitches 
the  dainty  muzzles  of  thoroughbred  dogs  afield.  It 
was  in  her,  the  mystery  and  passion  of  the  forest,  and  he 
saw  it  and  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  fish  swinging  from  his 
hand. 

"Your  mother  was  different,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Instinctively  they  both  turned  towards  the  shanty. 
Beside  the  doorstep  rose  a  granite  headstone. 

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THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

After  a  while  Jocelyn  drew  out  his  jack-knife  and  laid 
the  fish  on  the  dead  grass,  and  the  girl  carried  the  bucket 
of  water  back  to  the  house.  She  reappeared  a  moment 
later,  wearing  her  father's  shooting-jacket  and  cap,  and 
with  a  quiet  "good-bye"  to  Jocelyn  she  started  across 
the  hill-side  towards  the  woods  above. 

Jocelyn  watched  her  out  of  sight,  then  turning  the 
pickerel  over,  he  slit  the  firm,  white  belly  from  vent  to 
gill. 

About  that  time,  just  over  the  scrubby  hill  to  the 
north,  young  Gordon  was  walking,  knee  deep  in  the 
bronzed  sweet  fern,  gun  cocked,  eyes  alert.  His  two 
beautiful  dogs  were  working  close,  quartering  the  birch- 
dotted  hill-side  in  perfect  form.  But  they  made  no 
points;  no  dropping  woodcock  whistled  up  from  the 
shelter  of  birch  or  alder;  no  partridge  blundered  away 
from  bramble  covert  or  willow  fringe.  Only  the  blue- 
jays  screamed  at  him  as  he  passed ;  only  the  heavy  hawks, 
sailing,  watched  him  with  bright  eyes. 

He  was  a  dark-eyed,  spare  young  man,  with  well- 
shaped  head  and  a  good  mouth.  He  wore  his  canvas 
shooting-clothes  like  a  soldier,  and  handled  his  gun  and 
his  dogs  with  a  careless  ease  that  might  have  appeared 
slovenly  had  the  results  been  less  precise.  But  even  an 
amateur  could  see  how  thoroughly  the  ground  was  cov 
ered  by  those  silent  dogs.  Gordon  never  spoke  to 
them;  a  motion  of  his  hand  was  enough. 

Once  a  scared  rabbit  scuttled  out  of  the  sweet  fern 
and  bounded  away,  displaying  the  piteous  flag  of  truce, 
and  Gordon  smiled  to  himself  when  his  perfectly  trained 
dogs  crossed  the  alluring  trail  without  a  tremor,  swerv 
ing  not  an  inch  for  bunny  and  his  antics. 

179 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

But  what  could  good  dogs  do,  even  if  well  handled, 
when  there  had  been  no  flight  from  the  north  ?  So 
Gordon  signalled  the  dogs  and  walked  on. 

That  part  of  his  property  which  he  had  avoided  for 
years  he  now  came  in  sight  of  from  the  hill,  and  he 
halted,  gun  under  his  arm.  There  was  the  fringe  of 
alders,  mirrored  in  Rat's  Run;  there  was  Jocelyn's 
shanty,  the  one  plague-spot  in  his  estate;  there,  too, 
was  old  man  Jocelyn,  on  his  knees  beside  the  stream, 
fussing  with  something  that  glistened,  probably  a  fish. 

The  young  man  on  the  hill-top  tossed  his  gun  over  his 
shoulder  and  called  his  two  silvery-coated  dogs  to  heel; 
then  he  started  to  descend  the  slope,  the  November 
sunlight  dancing  on  the  polished  gun-barrels.  Down 
through  the  scrubby  thickets  he  strode ;  burr  and  thorn 
scraped  his  canvas  jacket,  blackberry-vines  caught  at 
elbow  and  knee.  With  an  unfeigned  scowl  he  kept  his 
eyes  on  Jocelyn,  who  was  still  pottering  on  the  stream's 
bank,  but  when  Jocelyn  heard  him  come  crackling 
through  the  stubble  and  looked  up  the  scowl  faded, 
leaving  Gordon's  face  unpleasantly  placid. 

"Good-morning,  Jocelyn,"  said  the  young  man,  step 
ping  briskly  to  the  bank  of  the  stream ;  "  I  want  a  word 
or  two  with  you." 

"Words  are  cheap,"  said  Jocelyn,  sitting  up  on  his 
haunches;  "how  many  will  you  have,  Mr.  Gordon?" 

"I  want  you,"  said  Gordon,  slowly  emphasizing  each 
word,  "to  stop  your  depredations  on  my  property,  once 
and  for  all." 

Squatting  there  on  the  dead  grass,  Jocelyn  eyed  him 
sullenly  without  replying. 

"Do  you  understand?"  said  Gordon,  sharply. 

180 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

"Well,  what's  the  trouble  now — "  began  Jocelyn, 
but  Gordon  cut  him  short. 

"Trouble!  You've  shot  out  every  swale  along  Brier 
Brook!  There  isn't  a  partridge  left  between  here  and 
the  lake!  And  it's  a  shabby  business,  Jocelyn  —  a 
shabby  business." 

He  flung  his  fowling-piece  into  the  hollow  of  his  left 
arm  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  bank. 

"This  is  my  land,"  he  said,  "and  I  want  no  tenants. 
There  were  a  dozen  farms  on  the  property  when  it  came 
to  me;  I  gave  every  tenant  a  year's  lease,  rent  free,  and 
when  they  moved  out  I  gave  them  their  houses  to  take 
down  and  rebuild  outside  of  my  boundary-lines.  Do 
you  know  any  other  man  who  would  do  as  much?" 

Jocelyn  was  silent. 

"As  for  you,"  continued  Gordon,  "you  were  left  in 
that  house  because  your  wife's  grave  is  there  at  your 
very  threshold.  You  have  your  house  free,  you  pay 
no  rent  for  the  land,  you  cut  your  wood  without  pay 
ment.  My  gardener  has  supplied  you  with  seed,  but 
you  never  cultivate  the  land ;  my  manager  has  sent  you 
cows,  but  you  sell  them." 

"One  died,"  muttered  Jocelyn. 

"Yes  —  with  a  cut  throat,"  replied  Gordon.  "See 
here,  Jocelyn,  I  don't  expect  gratitude  or  civility  from 
you,  but  I  do  expect  you  to  stop  robbing  me!" 

' '  Robbing ! ' '  repeated  Jocelyn ,  angrily,  rising  to  his  feet . 

"Yes,  robbing!  My  land  is  posted,  warning  people 
not  to  shoot  or  fish  or  cut  trees.  The  land,  the  game, 
and  the  forests  are  mine,  and  you  have  no  more  right 
to  kill  a  bird  or  cut  a  tree  on  my  property  than  I  have 
to  enter  your  house  and  steal  your  shoes!" 

181 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Gordon's  face  was  flushed  now,  and  he  came  and  stood 
squarely  in  front  of  Jocelyn.  "You  rob  me,"  he  said, 
"  and  you  break  not  only  my  own  private  rules,  but  also 
the  State  laws.  You  shoot  for  the  market,  and  it's  a 
dirty,  contemptible  thing  to  do!" 

Jocelyn  glared  at  him,  but  Gordon  looked  him  straight 
in  the  eye  and  went  on,  calmly:  "You  are  a  law 
breaker,  and  you  know  it!  You  snare  my  trout,  you 
cover  the  streams  with  set-lines  and  gang-hooks,  you 
get  more  partridges  with  winter  grapes  and  deadfalls 
than  you  do  with  powder  and  shot.  As  long  as  your 
cursed  poaching  served  to  fill  your  own  stomach  I  stood 
it,  but  now  that  you've  started  wholesale  game  slaugh 
ter  for  the  market  I  am  going  to  stop  the  whole  thing." 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  in  silence  for  a  mo 
ment;  then  Jocelyn  said:  "Are  you  going  to  tear  down 
my  house?" 

Gordon  did  not  answer.  It  was  what  he  wanted  to 
do,  but  he  looked  at  the  gaunt,  granite  headstone  in  the 
door-yard,  then  dropped  the  butt  of  his  gun  to  the  dead 
sod  again.  "Can't  you  be  decent,  Jocelyn?"  he  asked, 
harshly. 

Jocelyn  was  silent. 

"I  don't  want  to  turn  you  out,"  said  Gordon.  "Can't 
you  let  my  game  alone?  Come,  let's  start  again;  shall 
we?  I'll  send  Banks  down  to-morrow  with  a  couple  of 
cows  and  a  crate  or  two  of  chickens,  and  Murphy  shall 
bring  you  what  seeds  you  want  for  late  planting — " 

"To  hell  with  your  seeds!"  roared  Jocelyn,  in  a  burst 
of  fury.  "To  hell  with  your  cows  and  your  Murphys 
and  your  money  and  yourself,  you  loafing  millionaire! 
Do  you  think  I  want  to  dig  turnips  any  more  than  you 

182 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

do?  I  was  born  free  in  a  free  land  before  you  were 
born  at  all!  I  hunted  these  swales  and  fished  these 
streams  while  you  were  squalling  for  your  pap!" 

With  blazing  eyes  the  ragged  fellow  shook  his  fist  at 
Gordon,  cursing  him  fiercely,  then  with  a  violent  gest 
ure  he  pointed  at  the  ground  under  his  feet:  "  Let  those 
whose  calling  is  to  dig,  dig!"  he  snarled.  "I've  turned 
my  last  sod!" 

Except  that  Gordon's  handsome  face  had  grown  a 
little  white  under  the  heavy  coat  of  tan,  he  betrayed 
no  emotion  as  he  said:  "You  are  welcome  to  live  as  you 
please — under  the  law.  But  if  you  fire  one  more  shot 
on  this  land  I  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  you  to  go  else 
where." 

"Keep  your  ears  open,  then!"  shouted  Jocelyn,  "for 
I'll  knock  a  pillowful  of  feathers  out  of  the  first  par 
tridge  I  run  over!" 

"Better  not,"  said  Gordon,  gravely. 

Jocelyn  hitched  up  his  weather-stained  trousers  and 
drew  his  leather  belt  tighter.  "I  told  you  just  now," 
he  said,  "that  I'd  never  turn  another  sod.  I'll  take 
that  back." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Gordon,  pleasantly. 

"Yes,"  continued  Jocelyn,  with  a  grim  gesture,  "I'll 
take  it  back.  You  see,  I  buried  my  wife  yonder,  and  I 
guess  I'm  free  to  dig  up  what  I  planted.  And  I'll  do  it." 

After  a  pause  he  added:  "Tear  the  house  down.  I'm 
done  with  it.  I  guess  I  can  find  room  somewhere  under 
ground  for  her,  and  a  few  inches  on  top  of  the  ground 
for  me  to  sit  down  on." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Gordon,  reddening  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair.  "You  are  welcome  to  the  house  and 

183 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

the  land,  and  you  know  it.  I  only  ask  you  to  let  my 
game  alone." 

"Your  game?"  retorted  Jocelyn.  "They're  wild 
creatures,  put  there  by  Him  who  fashioned  them." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Gordon,  dryly.  "My  land  is  my 
own.  Would  you  shoot  the  poultry  in  my  barn -yard  ?" 

"If  I  did,"  cried  Jocelyn,  with  eyes  ablaze,  "I'd  not 
be  in  your  debt,  young  man.  You  are  walking  on  my 
father's  land.  Ask  your  father  why!  Yes,  go  back  to 
the  city  and  hunt  him  up  at  his  millionaire's  club  and  ask 
him  why  you  are  driving  Tom  Jocelyn  off  of  his  old 
land!" 

"My  father  died  three  years  ago,"  said  Gordon,  be 
tween  his  set  teeth.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

Jocelyn  looked  at  him  blankly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  repeated  Gordon,  with  nar 
rowing  eyes. 

Jocelyn  stood  quite  still.  Presently  he  looked  down 
at  the  fish  on  the  ground  and  moved  it  with  his  foot. 
Then  Gordon  asked  him  for  the  third  time  what  he 
meant,  and  Jocelyn,  raising  his  eyes,  answered  him: 
"With  the  dead  all  quarrels  die." 

"That  is  not  enough!"  said  Gordon,  harshly.  "Do 
you  believe  my  father  wronged  you?" 

"He's  dead,"  said  Jocelyn,  as  though  speaking  to 
himself. 

Presently  he  picked  up  the  fish  and  walked  towards 
his  house,  gray  head  bent  between  his  shoulders. 

For  a  moment  Gordon  hesitated,  then  he  threw  his 
gun  smartly  over  his  shoulder  and  motioned  his  dogs  to 
heel.  But  his  step  had  lost  something  of  its  elasticity, 
and  he  climbed  the  hill  slowly,  following  with  troubled 

184 


THE    MARKET- HUNTER 

eyes  his  own  shadow,  which  led  him  on  over  the  dead 
grass. 

The  edge  of  the  woods  was  warm  in  the  sunshine. 
Faint  perfumes  of  the  vanished  summer  lingered  in  fern 
and  bramble. 

He  did  not  enter  the  woods.  There  was  a  fallen  log, 
rotten  and  fragrant,  half  buried  in  the  briers,  and  on  it 
he  found  a  seat,  calling  his  dogs  to  his  feet. 

In  the  silence  of  morning  he  could  hear  the  pine-borers 
at  work  in  the  log  he  was  sitting  on,  sera-ape!  sera-ape! 
scr-r-rape!  deep  in  the  soft,  dry  pulp  under  the  bark. 
There  were  no  insects  abroad  except  the  white-faced 
pine  hornets,  crawling  stiffly  across  the  moss.  He  no 
ticed  no  birds,  either,  at  first,  until,  glancing  up,  he  saw 
a  great  drab  butcher-bird  staring  at  him  from  a  dead 
pine. 

At  first  that  inert  oppression  which  always  came  when 
the  memory  of  his  father  returned  to  him  touched  his 
fine  lips  with  a  gravity  too  deep  for  his  years.  No  man 
had  ever  said  that  his  father  had  dealt  unfairly  with 
men,  yet  for  years  now  his  son  had  accumulated  im- 
pressftms,  vague  and  indefinable  at  first,  but  clearer  as 
he  grew  older,  and  the  impressions  had  already  left  the 
faintest  tracery  of  a  line  between  his  eyebrows.  He 
had  known  his  father  as  a  hard  man ;  he  knew  that  the 
world  had  found  him  hard  and  shrewd.  And  now,  as 
he  grew  older  and  understood  what  the  tribute  of  hon 
est  men  was  worth,  even  to  the  dead,  he  waited  to  hear 
one  word.  But  he  never  heard  it.  He  had  heard  other 
things,  however,  but  always  veiled,  like  the  menacing 
outbreak  of  old  man  Jocelyn — nothing  tangible,  noth 
ing  that  he  could  answer  or  refute.  At  times  he  became 

185 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

morbid,  believing  he  could  read  reproach  in  men's  eyes, 
detect  sarcasm  in  friendly  voices.  Then  for  months  he 
would  shun  men,  as  he  was  doing  now,  living  alone 
month  after  month  in  the  great,  silent  house  where  his 
father  and  his  grandfather's  father  had  been  born.  Yet 
even  here  among  the  Sagamore  Hills  he  had  found  it — 
that  haunting  hint  that  honor  had  been  moulded  to  fit 
occasions  when  old  Gordon  dealt  with  his  fellow-men. 

He  glanced  up  again  at  the  butcher-bird,  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  The  bird's  cruel  eyes  regarded  him  steadily. 

"You  wholesale  murderer,"  thought  Gordon,  "I'll 
just  give  you  a  charge  of  shot." 

But  before  he  could  raise  his  gun,  the  shrike,  to  his 
amazement,  burst  into  an  exquisite  song,  sweet  and 
pure  as  a  thrush's  melody,  and,  spreading  its  slaty 
wings,  it  sailed  off  through  the  sunshine. 

"That's  a  new  trick  to  me,"  said  Gordon,  aloud, 
wondering  to  hear  such  music  from  the  fierce  feathered 
criminal.  But  he  let  it  go  for  the  sake  of  its  song,  and, 
lowering  his  gun  again,  he  pushed  into  the  underbrush. 

The  yellow  beech  leaves  illuminated  the  woods  above 
and  under  foot;  he  smelled  the  scent  of  ripened  foliage, 
he  saw  the  purple  gentians  wistfully  raising  their  buds 
which  neither  sun  nor  frost  could  ever  unseal. 

In  a  glade  where  brambles  covered  a  tiny  stream, 
creeping  through  layers  of  jewel -weed  and  mint,  the 
white  setter  in  the  lead  swung  suddenly  west,  quartered, 
wheeled,  crept  forward  and  stiffened  to  a  point.  Be 
hind  him  his  mate  froze  into  a  silvery  statue.  But 
Gordon  walked  on,  gun  under  his  arm,  and  the  covey 
rose  with  a  roar  of  heavy  wings,  driving  blindly  through 
the  tangle  deep  into  the  dim  wood's  depths. 

186 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

Gordon  was  not  in  a  killing  mood  that  morning. 

When  the  puzzled  dogs  had  come  wagging  in  and 
had  been  quietly  motioned  to.  heel,  Gordon  stood  still 
and  looked  around  at  the  mottled  tree-trunks  glimmer 
ing  above  the  underbrush.  The  first  beechnuts  had 
dropped;  a  few  dainty  sweet  acorns  lay  under  the 
white  oaks.  Somewhere  above  a  squirrel  scolded  inces 
santly. 

As  he  was  on  the  point  of  moving  forward,  stooping 
to  avoid  an  ozier,  something  on  the  edge  of  the  thicket 
caught  his  eye.  It  was  a  twig,  freshly  broken,  hang 
ing  downward  by  a  film  of  bark. 

After  he  had  examined  it  he  looked  around  cautious 
ly,  peering  into  the  thicket  until,  a  few  yards  to  the 
right,  he  discovered  another  twig,  freshly  broken,  hang 
ing  by  its  film  of  bark. 

An  ugly  flush  stained  his  forehead ;  he  set  his  lips  to 
gether  and  moved  on  noiselessly.  Other  twigs  hung 
dangling  every  few  yards,  yet  it  took  an  expert's  eye 
to  detect  them  among  the  tangles  and  clustering  branch 
es.  But  he  knew  what  he  was  to  find  at  the  end  of  the 
blind  trail,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  found  it.  It  was  a 
deadfall,  set,  and  baited  with  winter  grapes. 

Noiselessly  he  destroyed  it,  setting  the  heavy  stone 
on  the  moss  without  a  sound;  then  he  searched  the 
thicket  for  the  next  "line,"  and  in  a  few  moments  he 
discovered  another  broken  twig  leading  to  the  left. 

He  had  been  on  the  trail  for  some  time,  losing  it 
again  and  again  before  the  suspicion  flashed  over  him 
that  there  was  somebody  ahead  who  had  either  seen  or 
heard  him  and  who  was  deliberately  leading  him  astray 
with  false  "lines"  that  would  end  in  nothing.  He  lis- 

187 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

tened ;  there  was  no  sound  either  of  steps  or  of  cracking 
twigs,  but  both  dogs  had  begun  growling  and  staring 
into  the  demi-light  ahead.  He  motioned  them  on  and 
followed.  A  moment  later  both  dogs  barked  sharply. 

As  he  stepped  out  of  the  thicket  on  one  side,  a  young 
girl,  standing  in  the  more  open  and  heavier  timber,  raised 
her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  grave,  brown  eyes. 
Her  hands  were  on  the  silky  heads  of  his  dogs ;  from  her 
belt  hung  a  great,  fluffy  cock-partridge,  outspread  wings 
still  limber. 

He  knew  her  in  an  instant ;  he  had  seen  her  often  in 
church.  Perplexed  and  astonished,  he  took  off  his  cap 
in  silence,  finding  absolutely  nothing  to  say,  although 
the  dead  partridge  at  her  belt  furnished  a  text  on  which 
he  had  often  displayed  biting  eloquence. 

After  a  moment  he  smiled,  partly  at  the  situation, 
partly  to  put  her  at  her  ease. 

"If  I  had  known  it  was  you,"  he  said,  "I  should  not 
have  followed  those  very  inviting  twigs  I  saw  dangling 
from  the  oziers  and  moose-vines." 

"Lined  deadfalls  are  thoroughfares  to  woodsmen," 
she  answered,  defiantly.  "You  are  as  free  as  I  am  in 
these  woods — but  not  more  free." 

The  defiance,  instead  of  irritating  him,  touched  him. 
In  it  he  felt  a  strange  pathos — the  proud  protest  of  a 
heart  that  beat  as  free  as  the  thudding  wings  of  the  wild 
birds  he  sometimes  silenced  with  a  shot. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  he  said,  gently;  "you  are  perfectly 
free  in< these  woods." 

"But  not  by  your  leave!"  she  said,  and  the  quick 
color  stung  her  cheeks. 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  ask  it,"  he  replied. 

188 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  desperately,  "that  neither  I  nor 
my  father  recognize  your  right  to  these  woods." 

"Your  father?"  he  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Don't  you  know  who  I  am?"  she  said,  in  surprise. 

"I  know  you  sing  very  beautifully  in  church,"  he 
said,  smiling. 

"My  name,"  she  said,  quietly,  "is  the  name  of  your 
father's  old  neighbor.  I  am  Jessie  Jocelyn." 

His  face  was  troubled,  even  in  his  surprise.  The  line 
between  his  eyes  deepened.  "I  did  not  know  you  were 
Mr.  Jocelyn's  daughter,"  he  said,  at  last. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Presently  Gordon 
raised  his  head  and  found  her  brown  eyes  on  him. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  wistfully,  "that  you  would  let  me 
walk  with  you  a  little  way.  I  want  to  ask  your  advice. 
Will  you?" 

"  I  am  going  home,"  she  said,  coldly. 

She  turned  away,  moving  two  or  three  paces,  then  the 
next  step  was  less  hasty,  and  the  next  was  slower  still. 
As  he  joined  her  she  looked  up  a  trifle  startled,  then 
bent  her  head. 

"Miss  Jocelyn,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "have  you  ever 
heard  your  father  say  that  my  father  treated  him 
harshly?" 

She  stopped  short  beside  him.  "Have  you?"  he  re 
peated,  firmly. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  scornfully,  "your  father  can  an 
swer  that  question." 

"If  he  could,"  said  Gordon,  "I  would  ask  him.  He 
is  dead." 

She  was  listening  to  him  with  face  half  averted,  but 
now  she  turned  around  and  met  his  eyes  again. 

189 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Will  you  answer  my  question?"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  replied,  slowly;  "not  if  he  is  dead." 

Young  Gordon's  face  was  painfully  white.  "I  beg 
you,  Miss  Jocelyn,  to  answer  me,"  he  said.  "I  beg  you 
will  answer  for  your  father's  sake  and — in  justice  to  my 
father's  son." 

"What  do  you  care — "  she  began,  but  stopped  short. 
To  her  surprise  her  own  bitterness  seemed  forced.  She 
saw  he  did  care.  Suddenly  she  pitied  him. 

"There  was  a  promise  broken,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"What  else?" 

"A  man's  spirit." 

They  walked  on,  he  clasping  his  gun  with  nerveless 
hands,  she  breaking  the  sapless  twigs  as  she  passed,  with 
delicate,  idle  fingers. 

Presently  he  said,  as  though  speaking  to  himself: 
"He  had  no  quarrel  with  the  dead,  nor  has  the  dead 
with  him — now.  What  my  father  would  now  wish  I 
can  do — I  can  do  even  yet — " 

Under  her  deep  lashes  her  brown  eyes  rested  on  him 
pitifully.  But  at  his  slightest  motion  she  turned  away, 
walking  in  silence. 

As  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  woods  in  a  burst  of 
sunshine  he  looked  up  at  her  and  she  stopped.  Be 
low  them  the  smoke  curled  from  her  weather -racked 
house.  "Will  you  have  me  for  a  guest?"  he  said,  sud 
denly. 

"A  guest!"  she  faltered. 

A  new  mood  was  on  him ;  he  was  smiling  now. 

"  Yes,  a  guest.  It  is  Thanksgiving  Day,  Miss  Jocelyn. 
Will  you  and  your  father  forget  old  quarrels — and  per 
haps  forgive?" 

190 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

Again  she  rested  her  slender  hands  on  his  dogs'  heads, 
looking  out  over  the  valley. 

"Will  you  forgive ?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I?     Yes,"  she  said,  startled. 

"Then,"  he  went  on,  smiling,  "you  must  invite  me  to 
be  your  guest.  When  I  look  at  that  partridge,  Miss 
Jocelyn,  hunger  makes  me  shameless.  I  want  a  second- 
joint — indeed  I  do!" 

Her  sensitive  lips  trembled  into  a  smile,  but  she  could 
not  meet  his  eyes  yet. 

"Our  Thanksgiving  dinner  would  horrify  you,"  she 
said — "a  pickerel  taken  on  a  gang-hook,  woodcock  shot 
in  Brier  Brook  swales,  and  this  partridge —  She  hesi 
tated. 

"And  that  partridge  a  victim  to  his  own  rash  passion 
for  winter  grapes,"  added  Gordon,  laughing. 

The  laugh  did  them  both  good. 

"I  could  make  a  chestnut  stuffing,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"Splendid!     Splendid!"  murmured  Gordon. 

"Are  you  really  coming?"  she  asked. 

Something  in  her  eyes  held  his,  then  he  answered  with 
heightened  color,  "I  am  very  serious,  Miss  Jocelyn. 
May  I  come?" 

She  said  "Yes"  under  her  breath.  There  was  color 
enough  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  now. 

So  young  Gordon  went  away  across  the  hills,  whist 
ling  his  dogs  cheerily  on,  the  sunlight  glimmering  on 
the  slanting  barrels  of  his  gun.  They  looked  back  twice. 
The  third  time  she  looked  he  was  gone  beyond  the  brown 
hill's  crest. 

She  came  to  her  own  door  all  of  a  tremble.  Old  man 
Jocelyn  sat  sunning  his  gray  head  on  the  south  porch, 

191 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

lean  hands  folded  over  his  stomach,  pipe  between  his 
teeth. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  "look!"  and  she  held  up  the  par 
tridge.  Jocelyn  smiled. 

All  the  afternoon  she  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and 
when  the  early  evening  shadows  lengthened  across  the 
purple  hills  she  stood  at  the  door,  brown  eyes  search 
ing  the  northern  slope. 

The  early  dusk  fell  over  the  alder  swales ;  the  brawl 
ing  brook  was  sheeted  with  vapor. 

Up-stairs  she  heard  her  father  dressing  in  his  ancient 
suit  of  rusty  black  and  pulling  on  his  obsolete  boots. 
She  stole  into  the  dining-room  and  looked  at  the  table. 
Three  covers  were  laid. 

She  had  dressed  in  her  graduating  gown — a  fluffy  bit 
of  white  and  ribbon.  Her  dark  soft  hair  was  gathered 
simply;  a  bunch  of  blue  gentian  glimmered  at  her 
belt. 

Suddenly,  as  she  lingered  over  the  table,  she  heard 
Gordon's  step  on  the  porch,  and  the  next  instant  her 
father  came  down  the  dark  stairway  into  the  dining- 
room  just  as  Gordon  entered. 

The  old  man  halted,  eyes  ablaze.  But  Gordon  came 
forward  gravely,  saying,  "I  asked  Miss  Jocelyn  if  I 
might  come  as  your  guest  to-night.  It  would  have 
been  a  lonely  Thanksgiving  at  home." 

Jocelyn  turned  to  his  daughter  in  silence.  Then  the 
three  places  laid  at  table  and  the  three  chairs  caught 
his  eye. 

"I  hope,"  said  Gordon,  "that  old  quarrels  will  be  for 
gotten  and  old  scores  wiped  out.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  as 
I  did  this  morning.  You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Jocelyn; 

192 


THE    MARKET-HUNTER 

the  land  is  yours  and  has  always  been  yours.  It  is  from 
you  I  must  ask  permission  to  shoot." 

Jocelyn  eyed  him  grimly. 

"Don't  make  it  hard  for  me,"  said  Gordon.  "The 
land  is  yours,  and  that  also  which  you  lost  with  it  will 
be  returned.  It  is  what  my  father  wishes — now." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Jocelyn  took  it  as  though 
stunned. 

Gordon,  still  holding  his  hard  hand,  drew  him  outside 
to  the  porch. 

"  How  much  did  you  have  in  the  Sagamore  &  Wyan- 
dotte  Railway  before  our  system  bought  it?"  asked 
Gordon. 

"All  I  had — seven  thousand  dollars — "  Suddenly 
the  old  man's  hand  began  to  tremble.  He  raised  his 
gray  head  and  looked  up  at  the  stars. 

"That  is  yours  still,"  said  Gordon,  gently,  "with  in 
terest.  My  father  wishes  it." 

Old  man  Jocelyn  looked  up  at  the  stars.  They  seem 
ed  to  swim  in  silver  streaks  through  the  darkness. 

"Come,"  said  Gordon,  gayly,  "we  are  brother  sports 
men  now  —  and  that  sky  means  a  black  frost  and  a 
flight.  Will  you  invite  me  to  shoot  over  Brier  Brook 
swales  to-morrow?" 

As  he  spoke,  high  in  the  starlight  a  dark  shadow 
passed,  coming  in  from  the  north,  beating  the  still  air 
with  rapid  wings.  It  was  a  woodcock,  the  first  flight 
bird  from  the  north. 

"Come  to  dinner,  young  man,"  said  Jocelyn,  excited; 
"the  flight  is  on  and  we  must  be  on  Brier  Brook  by  day 
break." 

In  the  blaze  of  a  kerosene-lamp   they  sat  down  at 

13  193 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

table.  Gordon  looked  across  at  Jocelyn's  daughter;  her 
eyes  met  his,  and  they  smiled. 

Then  old  man  Jocelyn  bent  his  head  on  his  hard  clasp 
ed  hands. 

"  Lord,"  he  said,  tremulously,  "it  being  Thanksgiving, 
I  gave  Thee  extry  thanks  this  A.M.  It  being  now  P.M.,  I 
do  hereby  double  them  extry  thanks  " — his  mind  wan 
dered  a  little — "  with  interest  to  date.  Amen." 


THE    PATH-MASTER 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"The  bankrupt  can  always  pay  one  debt,  but  neither  God  nor 
man  can  credit  him  with  the  payment." 


WHEN  Dingman,  the  fate  game-warden,  came  pant 
ing  over  the  mountain  from  Spencers  to  confer  with 
young  By  ram,  road-master  at  Foxville,  he  found  that 
youthful  official  reshingling  his  barn. 

The  two  men  observed  each  other  warily  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  Byram  jingled  the  shingle  -  nails  in  his  apron- 
pocket;  Dingman,  the  game-warden,  took  a  brief  but 
intelligent  survey  of  the  premises,  which  included  an  un- 
painted  house,  a  hen -yard,  and  the  newly  shingled  barn. 

"Hello,  Byram,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"Is  that  you?"  replied  Byram,  coldly. 

He  was  a  law-abiding  young  man ;  he  had  not  shot  a 
bird  out  of  season  for  three  years. 

After  a  pause  the  game -warden  said,  "Ain't  you 
a-comin'  down  off'n  that  ridge-pole?" 

"I'm  a-comin'  down  when  I  quit  shinglin',"  replied 
the  road-master,  cautiously.  Dingman  waited ;  Byram 
fitted  a  shingle,  fished  out  a  nail  from  his  apron -pocket, 
and  drove  it  with  unnecessary  noise. 

197 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

The  encircling  forest  re-echoed  the  hammer  strokes; 
a  squirrel  scolded  from  the  orchard. 

"Didn't  I  hear  a  gun  go  off  in  them  alder  bushes  this 
morning  ?"  inquired  the  game-warden.  Byram  made  no 
reply,  but  hammered  violently.  "Anybody  got  a  ice 
house  'round  here?"  persisted  the  game-warden. 

Byram  turned  a  non-committal  eye  on  the  warden. 

"I  quit  that  business  three  years  ago,  an'  you  know 
it,"  he  said.  "I  'ain't  got  no  ice-house  for  to  hide  no 
pa'tridges,  an'  I  ain't  a-shootin'  out  o'  season  for  the 
Saratogy  market!" 

The  warden  regarded  him  with  composure. 

"Who  said  you  was  shootin'  pa'tridges?"  he  asked. 
But  Byram  broke  in : 

"What  would  I  go  shootin'  them  birds  for  when  I 
'ain't  got  no  ice-box?" 

"Who  says  you  got  a  ice-box?"  replied  the  warden, 
calmly.  "There  is  other  folks  in  Foxville,  ain't  there?" 

Byram  grew  angrier.  "If  you  want  to  stop  this  shoot- 
in'  out  o'  season,"  he  said,  "you  go  to  them  rich  hotel 
men  in  Saratogy.  Are  you  afraid  jest  because  they've 
got  a  pull  with  them  politicians  that  makes  the  game- 
laws  and  then  pays  the  hotel  men  to  serve  'em  game 
out  o'  season  an'  reason?  Them's  the  men  to  ketch; 
them's  the  men  that  set  the  poor  men  to  vi'latin'  the 
law.  Folks  here  'ain't  got  no  money  to  buy  powder  'n' 
shot  for  to  shoot  nothin'.  But  when  them  Saratogy 
men  offers  two  dollars  a  bird  for  pa'tridge  out  o'  season, 
what  d'ye  think  is  bound  to  happen?" 

"Shootin',"  said  the  warden,  sententiously.  "An'  it's 
been  did,  too.  An'  I'm  here  for  to  find  out  who  done 
that  shootin'  in  them  alders." 

198 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"Well,  why  don't  you  find  out,  then?"  sneered  young 
Byram  from  his  perch  on  the  ridge-pole. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  warden,  bitterly;  "all  you  folks 
hang  together  like  bees  in  a  swarm-bunch.  You're 
nuthin'  but  a  passel  o'  critters  that  digs  ginseng  for 
them  Chinese  an'  goes  gunnin'  for  pa'tridges  out  o'  sea 
son — 

"I'll  go  gunnin'  for  you!"  shouted  Byram,  climbing 
down  the  ladder  in  a  rage.  "  I  am  going  to  knock  your 
head  off,  you  darned  thing!" 

Prudence  halted  him;  the  game-warden,  who  had  at 
first  meditated  flight,  now  eyed  him  with  patronizing 
assurance. 

"  Don't  git  riled  with  me,  young  man,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
a  'fical  of  this  State.  Anyway,  it  ain't  you  I'm  lookin' 
for—" 

"Well,  why  don't  you  say  so,  then ?"  broke  in  Byram, 
with  an  oath. 

"But  it's  one  o'  your  family,"  added  the  warden. 

"My  family!"  stammered  Byram,  in  genuine  surprise. 
Then  an  ugly  light  glimmered  in  his  eyes.  "You  mean 
Dan  McCloud?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  warden,  "an'  I'm  fixed  to  git  him, 
too." 

"Well,  what  do  you  come  to  me  for,  then?"  demand 
ed  Byram. 

"For  because  Dan  McCloud  is  your  cousin,  ain't  he? 
An'  I  jest  dropped  in  on  you  to  see  how  the  land  lay. 
If  it's  a  fight  it's  a  fight,  but  I  jest  want  to  know  how 
many  I'm  to  buck  against.  Air  you  with  him?  I've 
proofs.  I  know  he's  got  his  ice-box  stuffed  full  o' 
pa'tridges  an'  woodcock.  Air  you  with  him?" 

199 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"No,"  said  Byram,  with  a  scowl;  "but  I  ain't  with 
you,  neither!" 

"  Don't  git  riled,"  said  the  warden.  "  I'm  that  friend 
ly  with  folks  I  don't  wanter  rile  nobody.  Look  here, 
friend,  you  an'  me  is  'ficials,  ain't  we?" 

"I'm  road-master  of  Fox ville,"  said  Byram,  aggres 
sively. 

"Well,  then,  let's  set  down  onto  this  bunch  o'  shingles 
an'  talk  it  over  'ficially,"  suggested  the  warden,  suavely. 

"All  right,"  said  Byram,  pocketing  his  hammer;  "if 
you're  out  to  ketch  Dan  McCloud  I  don't  care.  He's  a 
low-down,  shifty  cuss,  who  won't  pay  his  road-tax,  an'  I 
say  it  if  he  is  my  cousin,  an'  no  shame  to  me,  neither." 

The  warden  nodded  and  winked. 

"  If  you  he'p  me  ketch  Dan  McCloud  with  them  birds 
in  his  ice-box,  I'll  he'p  you  git  your  road-tax  outen  him," 
he  proposed.  "An'  you  git  half  the  reward,  too." 

"I  ain't  no  spy,"  retorted  Byram,  "an"  I  don't  want 
no  reward  outen  nobody." 

"But  you're  a  'ficial,  same  as  me,"  persisted  the 
warden.  "Set  down  onto  them  shingles,  friend,  an' 
talk  it  over." 

Byram  sat  down,  fingering  the  head  of  his  hammer; 
the  warden,  a  fat,  shiny  man,  with  tiny,  greenish  eyes 
and  an  unshaven  jaw,  took  a  seat  beside  him  and  began 
twisting  a  greasy  black  mustache. 

"You  an'  me's  'ficials,"  he  said,  with  dignity,  "an' 
we  has  burdens  that  folks  don't  know.  My  burden  is 
these  here  folks  that  shoots  pa'tridges  in  July;  your 
burdens  is  them  people  who  don't  pay  no  road-tax." 

"One  o'  them  people  is  Dan  McCloud,  an'  I'm  goin' 
after  that  road-tax  to-night,"  said  Byram. 

200 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"Can't  you  wait  till  I  ketch  McCloud  with  them 
birds?"  asked  the  warden,  anxiously. 

"No,  I  can't,"  snapped  Byram;  "I  can't  wait  for  no 
such  thing!"  But  he  spoke  without  enthusiasm. 

"Can't  we  make  it  a  kind  o'  'ficial  surprise  for  him, 
then?"  suggested  the  warden.  "Me  an'  you  is  'ficials; 
your  path-masters  is  'ficials.  We'll  all  go  an'  see  Dan 
McCloud,  that's  what  we'll  do.  How  many  path-mas 
ters  hev  you  got  to  back  you  up  ?" 

Byram's  face  grew  red  as  fire. 

"One,"  he  said;  "we  ain't  a  metropolipus." 

"Well,  git  your  path-master  an'  come  on,  anyhow," 
persisted  the  game-warden,  rising  and  buttoning  his 
faded  coat. 

"I — I  can't,"  muttered  Byram. 

"Ain't  you  road -master?"  asked  Dingman,  aston 
ished. 

"Yes." 

"Then,  can't  you  git  your  own  path-master  to  do  his 
dooty  an'  execoote  the  statoots?" 

"You  see,"  stammered  Byram,  "I  app'inted  a — a 
lady." 

"A  what!"  cried  the  game-warden. 

"A  lady,"  repeated  Byram,  firmly.  "Tell  the  truth, 
we  'ain't  got  no  path-master;  we've  got  a  path-mistress 
— Elton's  kid,  you  know — " 

"Elton?" 

"Yes." 

"What  hung  hisself  in  his  orchard?" 

"Yes." 

"His  kid?  The  girl  that  folks  say  is  sweet  on  Dan 
McCloud?" 

201 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN   A    HURRY 

A  scowl  crisped  Byram's  face. 

"It's  a  lie,"  he  said,  thickly. 

After  a  silence  Byram  spoke  more  calmly.  "Old 
man  Elton  he  didn't  leave  her  nothin'.  She  done  chores 
around  an'  taught  school  some,  down'  to  Frog  Holler. 
She's  that  poor — nothin'  but  pertaters  an'  greens  for  to 
eat,  an'  her  a-savin'  her  money  for  to  go  to  one  o'  them 
female  institoots  where  women  learn  to  nurse  sick 
folks." 

"So  you  'pinted  her  path-master  to  kinder  he'p  her 
along?" 

"I— I  kinder  did." 

"She's  only  a  kid." 

"Only  a  kid.     'Bout  sixteen." 

"  An'  it's  against  the  law  ?" 

"Kinder  'gainst  it." 

The  game-warden  pretended  to  stifle  a  yawn. 

"Well,"  he  said,  petulantly.  "I  never  knowed  noth 
in'  about  it — if  they  ask  me  over  to  Spencers." 

"That's  right!  An'  I'll  he'p  you  do  your  dooty  re- 
gardin'  them  pa'tridges,"  said  Byram,  quickly.  "Dan 
McCloud's  a  loafer  an'  no  good.  When  he's  drunk  he 
raises  hell  down  to  the  store.  Foxville  is  jest  plumb 
sick  o'  him." 

"Is  it?"  inquired  the  game-warden,  with  interest. 

"The  folks  is  that  sick  o'  him  that  they  was  talkin' 
some  o'  runnin'  him  acrost  the  mountains,"  replied 
Byram;  "but  I  jest  made  the  boys  hold  their  horses  till 
I  got  that  there  road-tax  outen  him  first." 

"Can't  you  git  it?" 

"Naw,"  drawled  Byram.  "I  sent  Billy  Delany  to 
McCloud's  shanty  to  collect  it,  but  McCloud  near  killed 

202 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

Bill  with  a  axe.  That  was  Tuesday.  Some  o'  the  boys 
was  fixin'  to  run  McCloud  outer  town,  but  I  guess  most 
of  us  ain't  hankerin'  to  lead  the  demonstration." 

'"Fraid?" 

"Ya-as,"  drawled  Byram. 

The  game-warden  laboriously  produced  a  six-shooter 
from  his  side  pocket.  A  red  bandanna  handkerchief 
protected  the  shiny  barrel;  he  unwrapped  this,  regarded 
the  weapon  doubtfully,  and  rubbed  his  fat  thumb  over 
the  butt. 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Byram,  contemptuously,  "he's 
got  a  rep eatin' -rifle;  he  can  cut  a  pa'tridge's  head  off 
from  here  to  that  butternut  'cross  the  creek!" 

"  I'm  goin'  to  git  into  his  ice-house  all  the  same,"  said 
the  warden,  without  much  enthusiasm. 

"An'  I'm  bound  to  git  my  road -tax,"  said  Byram, 
"but  jest  how  I'm  to  operate  I  dunno." 

"Me  neither,"  added  the  warden,  musingly.  "God 
knows  I  hate  to  shoot  people." 

What  he  really  meant  was  that  he  hated  to  be  shot  at. 

A  young  girl  in  a  faded  pink  sunbonnet  passed  along 
the  road,  followed  by  a  dog.  She  returned  the  road- 
master's  awkward  salutation  with  shy  composure.  A 
few  moments  later  the  game-warden  saw  her  crossing 
the  creek  on  the  stepping-stones;  her  golden  -  haired 
collie  dog  splashed  after  her. 

"  That's  a  slick  girl,"  he  said,  twisting  his  heavy  black 
mustache  into  two  greasy  points. 

Byram  glanced  at  him  with  a  scowl. 

"That's  the  kid,"  he  said. 

"Eh?     Elton's?" 

"Yes." 

203 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Your  path-master?" 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Nuthin' — she's  good-lookin' — for  a  path -master," 
said  the  warden,  with  a  vicious  leer  intended  for  a 
compliment. 

"What  of  it?"  demanded  Byram,  harshly. 

"Be  you  fixin'  to  splice  with  that  there  girl  some 
day?"  asked  the  game-warden,  jocosely. 

"What  of  it?"  repeated  Byram,  with  an  ugly  stare. 

"Oh,"  said  the  warden,  hastily,  "I  didn't  know  noth- 
in'  was  goin'  on;  I  wasn't  meanin'  to  rile  nobody." 

"Oh,  you  wasn't,  wasn't  you?"  said  Byram, in  a  rage. 
"Now  you  can  jest  git  your  pa'tridges  by  yourself  an' 
leave  me  to  git  my  road-tax.  I'm  done  with  you." 

"  How  you  do  rile  up!"  protested  the  warden.  "  How 
was  I  to  know  that  you  was  sweet  on  your  path-master 
when  folks  over  to  Spencers  say  she's  sweet  on  Dan 
McCloud— " 

"It's  a  lie!"  roared  young  Byram. 

"Is  it?"  asked  the  warden,  with  interest.  "He's  a 
good-lookin'  chap,  an'  folks  say — " 

"It's  a  damn  lie!"  yelled  Byram,  "an'  you  can  tell 
them  folks  that  I  say  so.  She  don't  know  Dan  McCloud 
to  speak  to  him,  an'  he's  that  besotted  with  rum  half 
the  time  that  if  he  spoke  to  her  she'd  die  o'  fright,  for  all 
his  good  looks." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  game-warden,  soothingly;  "I 
guess  he  ain't  no  account  nohow,  an'  it's  jest  as  well 
that  we  ketch  him  with  them  birds  an'  run  him  off  to 
jail  or  acrost  them  mountains  yonder." 

"I  don't  care  where  he  is  as  long  as  I  git  my  tax," 
muttered  Byram. 

204 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

But  he  did  care.  At  the  irresponsible  suggestion  of 
the  gossiping  game -warden  a  demon  of  jealousy  had 
arisen  within  him.  Was  it  true  that  Dan  McCloud  had 
cast  his  sodden  eyes  on  Ellie  Elton?  If  it  were  true, 
was  the  girl  aware  of  it?  Perhaps  she  had  even  ex 
changed  words  with  the  young  man,  for  McCloud  was 
a  gentleman's  son  and  could  make  himself  agreeable 
when  he  chose,  and  he  could  appear  strangely  at  ease 
in  his  ragged  clothes — nay,  even  attractive. 

All  Foxville  hated  him;  he  was  not  one  of  them;  if  he 
had  been,  perhaps  they  could  have  found  something  to 
forgive  in  his  excesses  and  drunken  recklessness. 

But,  though  with  them,  he  was  not  of  them;  he  came 
from  the  city — Albany ;  he  had  been  educated  at  Prince 
ton  College;  he  neither  thought,  spoke,  nor  carried  him 
self  as  they  did.  Even  in  his  darkest  .hours  he  never 
condescended  to  their  society,  nor,  drunk  as  he  was, 
would  he  permit  any  familiarities  from  the  inhab 
itants. 

Byram,  who  had  been  to  an  agricultural  college,  and 
who,  on  his  return  to  Foxville  had  promptly  relapsed 
into  the  hideous  dialect  which  he  had  imbibed  with  his 
mother's  milk,  never  forgave  the  contempt  with  which 
McCloud  had  received  his  advances,  nor  that  young 
man's  amused  repudiation  of  the  relationship  which 
Byram  had  ventured  to  recall. 

So  it  came  about  that  Byram  at  length  agreed  to  aid 
the  game  -  warden  in  his  lawful  quest  for  the  ice-box, 
and  he  believed  sincerely  that  it  was  love  of  law  and 
duty  which  prompted  him. 

But  their  quest  was  fruitless;  McCloud  met  them  at 
the  gate  with  a.  repeating  -  rifle,  knocked  the  game- 

205 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

warden  down,  took  away  his  revolver,  and  laughed  at 
Byram,  who  stood  awkwardly  apart,  dazed  by  the 
business-like  rapidity  of  the  operation. 

"Road -tax?"  repeated  McCloud,  with  a  sneer.  "I 
guess  not.  If  the  roads  are  good  enough  for  cattle  like 
you,  pay  for  them  yourselves!  I  use  the  woods  and  I 
pay  no  road-tax." 

"If  you  didn't  have  that  there  rifle — "  began  Byram, 
sullenly. 

"It's  quite  empty;  look  for  yourself!"  said  McCloud, 
jerking  back  the  lever. 

The  mortified  game -warden  picked  himself  out  of 
the  nettle-choked  ditch  where  he  had  been  painfully 
squatting  and  started  towards  Foxville. 

"I'll  ketch  you  at  it  yet!"  he  called  back;  "I'll  fix 
you  an'  your  ice-box!" 

McCloud  laughed. 

"Gimme  that  two  dollars,"  demanded  Byram,  sul 
lenly,  "or  do  your  day's  stint  on  them  there  public 
roads." 

McCloud  dropped  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his 
ragged  shooting-jacket. 

"You'd  better  leave  or  I'll  settle  you  as  I  settled 
Billy  Delany." 

"You  hit  him  with  a  axe;  that's  hommycide  assault; 
he'll  fix  you,  see  if  he  don't!"  said  Byram. 

"No,"  said  McCloud,  slowly;  "I  did  not  hit  him  with 
an  axe.  I  had  a  ring  on  my  finger  when  I  hit  him.  I'm 
sorry  it  cut  him." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  sorrier  yet,"  cried  Byram,  turning 
away  towards  the  road,  where  the  game -warden  was 
anxiously  waiting  for  him. 

206 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"We'll  run  you  outer  town!"  called  back  the  warden, 
waddling  down  the  road. 

"Try  it,"  replied  McCloud,  yawning. 


II 

McCloud  spent  the  afternoon  lolling  on  the  grass  tin 
der  the  lilacs,  listlessly  watching  the  woodpeckers  on 
the  dead  pines.  Chewing  a  sprig  of  mint,  he  lay  there 
sprawling,  hands  clasping  the  back  of  his  well-shaped 
head,  soothed  by  the  cadence  of  the  chirring  locusts. 
When  at  length  he  had  drifted  pleasantly  close  to  the 
verge  of  slumber  a  voice  from  the  road  below  aroused 
him. 

He  listened  lazily ;  again  came  the  timid  call ;  he  arose, 
brushing  his  shabby  coat  mechanically. 

Down  the  bramble-choked  path  he  slouched,  shoul 
dering  his  wood-axe  as  a  precaution.  Passing  around 
the  rear  of  his  house,  he  peered  over  the  messed  tangle 
of  sweetbrier  which  supported  the  remains  of  a  rotting 
fence,  and  he  saw,  down  in  the  road  below,  a  young  girl 
and  a  collie  dog,  both  regarding  him  intently. 

"Were  you  calling  me?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  only  about  your  road-tax,"  began  the  girl,  look 
ing  up  at  him  with  pleasant  gray  eyes. 

"What  about  my  road- tax?" 

"It's  due,  isn't  it?"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"  Is  it  ?"  he  retorted,  staring  at  her  insolently.  "Well, 
don't  let  it  worry  you,  young  woman." 

The  smile  died  out  in  her  eyes. 

207 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"It  does  worry  me,"  she  said;  "you  owe  the  path- 
master  two  dollars,  or  a  day's  work  on  the  roads." 

"Let  the  path-master  come  and  get  it,"  he  replied. 

"I  am  the  path-master,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  at  her  curiously.  She  had  outgrown 
her  faded  pink  skirts;  her  sleeves  were  too  short,  and  so 
tight  that  the  plump,  white  arm  threatened  to  split  them 
to  the  shoulder.  Her  shoes  were  quite  as  ragged  as 
his;  he  noticed,  however,  that  her  hands  were  slender 
and  soft  under  their  creamy  coat  of  tan,  and  that  her 
fingers  were  as  carefully  kept  as  his  own. 

"You  must  be  Ellice  Elton,"  he  said,  remembering 
the  miserable  end  of  old  man  Elton,  who  also  had  been 
a  gentleman  until  a  duel  with  drink  left  him  dangling 
by  the  neck  under  the  new  moon  some  three  years  since. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  drawl,  "and  I  think 
you  must  be  Dan  McCloud." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  he  asked. 

"From  your  rudeness." 

He  gave  her  an  ugly  look;  his  face  slowly  reddened. 

"So  you're  the  path-master?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  expect  to  get  money  out  of  me?" 

She  flushed  painfully. 

"You  can't  get  it,"  he  said,  harshly;  "I'm  dog  poor; 
I  haven't  enough  to  buy  two  loads  for  my  rifle.  So 
I'll  buy  one,"  he  added,  with  a  sneer. 

She  was  silent.  He  chewed  the  mint-leaf  between 
his  teeth  and  stared  at  her  dog. 

"  If  you  are  so  poor — "  she  began. 

"Poor!"  he  cut  in,  with  a  mirthless  laugh;  "it's  only 
a  word  to  you,  I  suppose." 

208 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

He  had  forgotten  her  ragged  and  outgrown  clothing, 
her  shabby  shoes,  in  the  fresh  beauty  of  her  face.  In 
every  pulse-beat  that  stirred  her  white  throat,  in  every 
calm  breath  that  faintly  swelled  the  faded  pink  calico 
over  her  breast,  he  felt  that  he  had  proved  his  own  vul 
garity  in  the  presence  of  his  betters.  A  sullen  resent 
ment  arose  in  his  soul  against  her. 

" I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said;  " I  also  am 
terribly  poor.  If  you  mean  that  I  am  not  sorry  for  you, 
you  are  mistaken.  Only  the  poor  can  understand  each 
other." 

"I  can't  understand  you,"  he  sneered.  "Why  do 
you  come  and  ask  me  to  pay  money  to  your  road-mas 
ter  when  I  have  no  money?" 

"Because  I  am  path-master.  I  must  do  my  duty. 
I  won't  ask  you  for  any  money,  but  I  must  ask  you  to 
work  out  your  tax.  I  can't  help  it,  can  I?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  moody,  suspicious  silence. 

Idle,  vicious,  without  talent,  without  ambition,  he 
had  drifted  part  way  through  college,  a  weak  parody 
on  those  wealthy  young  men  who  idle  through  the  great 
universities,  leaving  unsavory  records.  His  father  had 
managed  to  pay  his  debts,  then  very  selfishly  died,  and 
there  was  nobody  to  support  the  son  and  heir,  just  emerg 
ing  from  a  drunken  junior  year. 

Creditors  made  a  clean  sweep  in  Albany;  the  rough 
shooting-lodge  in  the  Fox  Hills  was  left.  Young  McCloud 
took  it. 

The  pine  timber  he  sold  as  it  stood ;  this  kept  him  in 
drink  and  a  little  food.  Then,  when  starvation  looked 
in  at  his  dirty  window,  he  took  his  rifle  and  shot  par 
tridges. 

14  209 


A   YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Now,  for  years  he  had  been  known  as  a  dealer  in  game 
out  of  season;  the  great  hotels  at  Saratoga  paid  him 
well  for  his  dirty  work;  the  game-wardens  watched  to 
catch  him.  But  his  ice-house  was  a  cave  somewhere 
out  in  the  woods,  and  as  yet  no  warden  had  been  quick 
enough  to  snare  McCloud  red-handed. 

Musing  over  these  things,  the  young  fellow  leaned  on 
the  rotting  fence,  staring  vacantly  at  the  collie  dog, 
who,  in  turn  stared  gravely  at  him. 

The  path-master,  running  her  tanned  fingers  through 
her  curls,  laid  one  hand  on  her  dog's  silky  head  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

"I  do  wish  you  would  work  out  your  tax,"  she  said. 

Before  McCloud  could  find  voice  to  answer,  the  alder 
thicket  across  the  road  parted  and  an  old  man  sham 
bled  forth  on  a  pair  of  unsteady  bowed  legs. 

"The  kid's  right,"  he  said,  with  a  hoarse  laugh;  "git 
yewr  pick  an'  hoe,  young  man,  an'  save  them  two  dol 
lars  tew  pay  yewr  pa's  bad  debts!" 

It  was  old  Tansey,  McCloud 's  nearest  neighbor, 
loaded  down  with  a  bundle  of  alder  staves,  wood-axe  in 
one  hand,  rope  in  the  other,  supporting  the  heavy  weight 
of  wood  on  his  bent  back. 

"Get  out  of  that  alder-patch!"  said  McCloud,  sharply. 

"Ain't  I  a-gittin'?"  replied  Tansey,  winking  at  the 
little  path-master. 

"And  keep  out  after  this,"  added  McCloud.  "Those 
alders  belong  to  me!" 

"To  yew  and  the  bhie-jays,"  assented  Tansey,  stop 
ping  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  heavy  face. 

"He's  only  cutting  alders  for  bean-poles,"  observed 
the  path-master,  resting  her  slender  fingers  on  her  hips. 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"Well,  he  can  cut  his  bean-poles  on  his  own  land 
hereafter,"  said  McCloud. 

"Gosh!"  observed  Tansey,  in  pretended  admiration. 
"Ain't  he  neighborly?  Cut  'em  on  my  own  land,  hey? 
Don't  git  passionate,"  he  added,  moving  off  through 
the  dust;  "passionate  folks  is  liable  to  pyralyze  their 
in'ards,  young  man!" 

"Don't  answer!"  said  the  path-master,  watching  the 
sullen  rage  in  McCloud 's  eyes. 

"Pay  yewr  debts!"  called  out  Tansey  at  the  turn  of 
the  road.  "Pay  yewr  debts,  an'  the  Lord  will  pay 
yewr  taxes!" 

"The  Lord  can  pay  mine,  then,"  said  McCloud  to  the 
path-master,  "for  I'll  never  pay  a  cent  of  taxes  in  Fox- 
ville.  Now  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

The  path-master  had  nothing  to  say  She  went  away 
through  the  golden  dust,  one  slim  hand  on  the  head  of 
her  collie  dog,  who  trotted  beside  her  waving  his  plumy 
tail. 

That  evening  at  the  store  where  McCloud  had  gone  to 
buy  cartridges,  Tansey  taunted  him,  and  he  replied  con 
temptuously.  Then  young  Byram  flung  a  half-veiled 
threat  at  him,  and  McCloud  replied  with  a  threat  that 
angered  the  loungers  around  the  stove. 

"What  you  want  is  a  rawhide,"  said  McCloud,  eying 
young  Byram. 

"I  guess  I  do,"  said  Byram,  "an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  buy 
one,  too — unless  you  pay  that  there  road-tax." 

"I'll  be  at  home  when  you  call,"  replied  McCloud, 
quietly,  picking  up  his  rifle  and  pocketing  his  cartridges. 

Somebody  near  the  stove  said,  "Go  fur  him!"  to 
Byram,  and  the  young  road-master  glared  at  McCloud. 

211 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"He  was  a-sparkin'  Ellie  Elton,"  added  Tansey, 
grinning;  "yew  owe  him  a  few  for  that,  too,  By- 
ram." 

By  ram  turned  white,  but  made  no  movement. 
McCloud  laughed. 

"Wait,"  said  the  game- warden,  sitting  behind  the 
stove;  "jest  wait  awhile;  that's  all.  No  man  can  fire 
me  into  a  ditch  full  o'  stinging  nettles  an'  live  to  larf 
no  pizened  larf  at  me!" 

"Dingman,"  said  McCloud,  contemptuously,  "you're 
like  the  rest  of  them  here  in  Foxville — all  foxes  who 
run  to  earth  when  they  smell  a  Winchester." 

He  flung  his  rifle  carelessly  into  the  hollow  of  his  left 
arm;  the  muzzle  was  in  line  with  the  game-warden, 
and  that  official  promptly  moved  out  of  range,  upset 
ting  his  chair  in  his  haste. 

"Quit  that!"  bawled  the  storekeeper,  from  behind  his 
counter. 

"Quit  what — eh?"  demanded  McCloud.  "Here,  you 
old  rat,  give  me  the  whiskey  bottle!  Quick!  What? 
Money  to  pay?  Trot  out  that  grog  or  I'll  shoot  your 
lamps  out!" 

"He's  been  a-drinkin'  again,"  whispered  the  game- 
warden.  "Fur  God's  sake,  give  him  that  bottle,  some 
body!" 

But  as  the  bottle  was  pushed  across  the  counter, 
McCloud  swung  his  rifle-butt  and  knocked  the  bottle 
into  slivers.  "Drinks  for  the  crowd!"  he  said,  with  an 
ugly  laugh.  "Get  down  and  lap  it  up  off  the  floor,  you 
fox  cubs!" 

Then,  pushing  the  fly-screen  door  open  with  one  elbow, 
he  sauntered  out  into  the  moonlight,  careless  who  might 

212 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

follow  him,  although  now  that  he  had  insulted  and  de 
fied  the  entire  town  there  were  men  behind  who  would 
have  done  him  a  mischief  if  they  had  dared  believe  him 
off  his  guard. 

He  walked  moodily  on  in  the  moonlight,  disdaining 
to  either  listen  or  glance  behind  him.  There  was  a 
stoop  to  his  shoulders  now,  a  loose  carriage  which  some 
times  marks  a  man  whose  last  shred  of  self-respect  has 
gone,  leaving  him  nothing  but  the  naked  virtues  and 
vices  with  which  he  was  born.  McCloud's  vices  were 
many,  though  some  of  them  lay  dormant;  his  virtues, 
if  they  were  virtues,  could  be  counted  in  a  breath — a 
natural  courage,  and  a  generous  heart,  paralyzed  and 
inactive  under  a  load  of  despair  and  a  deep  resentment 
against  everybody  and  everything.  He  hated  the  for 
tunate  and  the  unfortunate  alike ;  he  despised  his  neigh 
bors,  he  despised  himself.  His  inertia  had  given  place 
to  a  fierce  restlessness;  he  felt  a  sudden  and  curious  de 
sire  for  a  physical  struggle  with  a  strong  antagonist — 
like  young  Byram. 

All  at  once  the  misery  of  his  poverty  arose  up  before 
him.  It  was  not  unendurable  simply  because  he  was 
obliged  to  endure  it. 

The  thought  of  his  hopeless  poverty  stupefied  him  at 
first,  then  rage  followed.  Poverty  was  an  antagonist — 
like  young  Byram — a  powerful  one.  How  he  hated  it! 
How  he  hated  Byram!  Why?  And,  as  he  walked 
there,  shuffling  up  the  dust  in  the  moonlight,  he  thought, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  if  poverty  were  only  a 
breathing  creature  he  would  strangle  it  with  his  naked 
hands.  But  logic  carried  him  no  further;  he  began  to 
brood  again,  remembering  Tansey's  insults  and  the 

213 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

white  anger  of  young  Byram,  and  the  threats  from  the 
dim  group  around  the  stove.  If  they  molested  him 
they  would  remember  it.  He  would  neither  pay  taxes 
nor  work  for  them. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  path-master,  reddening  as  he 
remembered  Tansey's  accusation.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  straightened  up,  dismissing  her  from  his 
mind,  but  she  returned,  only  to  be  again  dismissed  with 
an  effort. 

When  for  the  third  time  the  memory  of  the  little  path- 
master  returned,  he  glanced  up  as  though  he  could  see 
her  in  the  flesh  standing  in  the  road  before  his  house. 
She  was  there — in  the  flesh. 

The  moonlight  silvered  her  hair,  and  her  face  was  the 
face  of  a  spirit;  it  quickened  the  sluggish  blood  in  his 
veins  to  see  her  so  in  the  moonlight. 

She  said:  "I  thought  that  if  you  knew  I  should  be 
obliged  to  pay  your  road-tax  if  you  do  not,  you  would 
pay.  Would  you?" 

A  shadow  glided  across  the  moonlight;  it  was  the 
collie  dog,  and  it  came  and  looked  up  into  McCloud's 
shadowy  eyes. 

"Yes — I  would,"  he  said;  "but  I  cannot." 

His  heart  began  to  beat  faster;  a  tide  of  wholesome 
blood  stirred  and  flowed  through  his  veins.  It  was  the 
latent  decency  within  him  awaking. 

"Little  path -master,"  he  said,  "I  am  very  poor;  I 
have  no  money.  But  I  will  work  out  my  taxes  because 
you  ask  me." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the  spectral  forest 
where  dead  pines  towered,  ghastly  in  the  moon's  beams. 
That  morning  he  had  cut  the  last  wood  on  his  own  land ; 

214 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

he  had  nothing  left  to  sell  but  a  patch  of  brambles  and 
a  hut  which  no  one  would  buy. 

"I  guess  I'm  no  good,"  he  said;  "I  can't  work." 

"But  what  will  you  do?"  she  asked,  with  pitiful  eyes 
raised. 

"Do?  Oh,  what  I  have  done.  I  can  shoot  par 
tridges." 

"  Market  -  shooting  is  against  the  law,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"The  law!"  he  repeated;  "it  seems  to  me  there  is 
nothing  but  law  in  this  God-forsaken  hole!" 

"Can't  you  live  within  the  law?  It  is  not  difficult, 
is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  difficult  for  me,"  he  said,  sullenly.  The  dogged 
brute  in  him  was  awaking  in  its  turn.  He  was  already 
sorry  he  had  promised  her  to  work  out  his  taxes.  Then 
he  remembered  the  penalty.  Clearly  he  would  have 
to  work,  or  she  would  be  held  responsible. 

"If  anybody  would  take  an  unskilled  man,"  he  be 
gan,  "I — I  would  try  to  get  something  to  do." 

"Won't  they?" 

"No.     I  tried  it — once." 

"Only  once?" 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  and  stooped  to  pat  the  collie, 
saying,  "Don't  bother  me,  little  path-master." 

"No — I  won't,"  she  replied,  slowly-. 

She  went  away  in  the  moonlight,  saying  good-night 
and  calling  her  collie,  and  he  walked  up  the  slope  to  the 
house,  curiously  at  peace  with  himself  and  the  dim 
world  hidden  in  the  shadows  around. 

He  was  not  sleepy.  As  he  had  no  candles,  he  sat 
down  in  the  moonlight,  idly  balancing  his  rifle  on  his 

215 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

knees.     From  force  of  habit  he  loaded  it,  then  rubbed 
the  stock  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  eyes  dreaming. 

Into  the  tangled  garden  a  whippoorwill  flashed  on 
noiseless  wings,  rested  a  moment,  unseen,  then  broke 
out  into  husky,  breathless  calling.  A  minute  later  the 
whispering  call  came  from  the  forest's  edge,  then  farther 
away,  almost  inaudible  in  the  thickening  dusk. 

And,  as  he  sat  there,  thinking  of  the  little  path-mas 
ter,  he  became  aware  of  a  man  slinking  along  the  moon 
lit  road  below.  His  heart  stopped,  then  the  pulses 
went  bounding,  and  his  fingers  closed  on  his  rifle. 

There  were  other  men  in  the  moonlight  now  —  he 
counted  five — and  he  called  out  to  them,  demanding 
their  business. 

"You're  our  business,"  shouted  back  young  Byram. 
"Git  up  an'  dust  out  o'  Foxville,  you  dirty  loafer!" 

"Better  stay  where  you  are,"  said  McCloud,  grimly. 

Then  old  Tansey  bawled:  "Yew  low  cuss,  git  outer 
this  here  taown!  Yew  air  meaner  'n  pussley  an'  meaner 
'n  quack-root,  an'  we  air  bound  tew  run  yew  into  them 
mountings,  b'  gosh!" 

There  was  a  silence,  then  the  same  voice:  "Be  yew 
calculatin'  tew  mosey,  Dan  McCloud?" 

"You  had  better  stay  where  you  are,"  said  McCloud; 
"I'm  armed." 

"Ye  be?"  replied  a  new  voice;  "then  come  aout  o' 
that  or  we'll  snake  ye  aout!" 

Byram  began  moving  towards  the  house,  shot-gun 
raised. 

"Stop!"  cried  McCloud,  jumping  to  his  feet. 

But  Byram  came  on,  gun  levelled,  and  McCloud  re 
treated  to  his  front  door. 

216 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

"Give  it  to  him!"  shouted  the  game-warden;  "shoot 
his  windows  out!"  There  was  a  flash  from  the  road 
and  a  load  of  buckshot  crashed  through  the  window 
overhead. 

Before  the  echoes  of  the  report  died  away,  McCloud's 
voice  was  heard  again,  calmly  warning  them  back. 

Something  in  his  voice  arrested  the  general  advance. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  don't  kill  you  in  your  tracks, 
Byram,"  said  McCloud;  "I've  wanted  the  excuse  often 
enough.  But  now  I've  got  it  and  I  don't  want  it,  some 
how.  Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you." 

"He's  no  good!"  said  the  warden,  distinctly.  Byram 
crept  through  the  picket  fence  and  lay  close,  hugging 
his  shot-gun. 

"  I  tell  you  I  intend  to  pay  my  taxes,"  cried  McCloud, 
desperately.  "Don't  force  me  to  shoot!" 

The  sullen  rage  was  rising;  he  strove  to  crush  it  back, 
to  think  of  the  little  path-master. 

"For  God's  sake,  go  back!"  he  pleaded,  hoarsely. 

Suddenly  Byram  started  running  towards  the  house, 
and  McCloud  clapped  his  rifle  to  his  cheek  and  fired. 
Four  flashes  from  the  road  answered  his  shot,  but 
Byram  was  down  in  the  grass  screaming,  and  McCloud 
had  vanished  into  his  house. 

Charge  after  charge  of  buckshot  tore  through  the 
flimsy  clapboards;  the  moonlight  was  brightened  by 
pale  flashes,  and  the  timbered  hills  echoed  the  cracking 
shots. 

After  a  while  no  more  shots  were  fired,  and  presently 
a  voice  broke  out  in  the  stillness: 

"  Be  yew  layin'  low,  or  be  yew  dead,  Dan  McCloud?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

217 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Or  be  yew  playin'  foxy  possum,"  continued  the 
voice,  with  nasal  rising  inflection. 

Byram  began  to  groan  and  crawl  towards  the  road. 

"Let  him  alone,"  he  moaned;  "let  him  alone.  He's 
got  grit,  if  he  hain't  got  nothin'  else." 

"Air  yew  done  for?"  demanded  Tansey,  soberly. 

"No,  no,"  groaned  Byram,  "I'm  jest  winged.  He 
done  it,  an'  he  was  right.  Didn't  he  say  he'd  pay  his 
taxes  ?  He's  plumb  right.  Let  him  alone,  or  he'll  come 
out  an'  murder  us  all!" 

Byram's  voice  ceased ;  Tansey  mounted  the  dark  slope, 
peering  among  the  brambles,  treading  carefully. 

"Whar  be  ye,  Byram?"  he  bawled 

But  it  was  ten  minutes  before  he  found  the  young 
man,  quite  dead,  in  the  long  grass. 

With  an  oath  Tansey  flung  up  his  gun  and  drove  a 
charge  of  buckshot  crashing  through  the  front  door. 
The  door  quivered ;  the  last  echoes  of  the  shot  died  out ; 
silence  followed. 

Then  the  shattered  door  swung  open  slowly,  and 
McCloud  reeled  out,  still  clutching  his  rifle.  He  tried 
to  raise  it;  he  could  not,  and  it  fell  clattering.  Tansey 
covered  him  with  his  shot-gun,  cursing  him  fiercely. 
"Up  with  them  hands  o'  yourn!"  he  snarled;  but 
McCloud  only  muttered  and  began  to  rock  and  sway  in 
the  doorway. 

Tansey  came  up  to  him,  shot-gun  in  hand.  "Yew 
hev  done  fur  Byram,"  he  said;  "yew  air  bound  to  set  in 
the  chair  for  this." 

McCloud,  leaning  against  the  sill,  looked  at  him  with 
heavy  eyes. 

"It's  well  enough  for  you,"  he  muttered;  "you  are 

218 


THE    PATH-MASTER 

only  a  savage;  but  Byram  went  to  college — and  so  did 
I — and  we  are  nothing  but  savages  like  you,  after  all — 
nothing  but  savages — " 

He  collapsed  and  slid  to  the  ground,  lying  hunched 
up  across  the  threshold. 

"I  want  to  see  the  path-master!"  he  cried,  sharply. 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  shot  -  riddled  door  snow- 
white  in  the  moonshine. 

"She's  here,"  said  the  game-warden,  soberly. 

But  McCloud  had  started  talking  and  muttering  to 
himself. 

Towards  midnight  the  whippoorwill  began  a  breath 
less  calling  from  the  garden. 

McCloud  opened  his  eyes. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked,  irritably. 

"He's  looney,"  whispered  Tansey;  "he  gabbles  to 
hisself." 

The  little  path-master  knelt  beside  him.  He  stared 
at  her  stonily. 

"It  is  I,"  she  whispered. 

"  Is  it  you,  little  path-master?"  he  said,  in  an  altered 
voice.  Then  something  came  into  his  filmy  eyes  which 
she  knew  was  a  smile. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  "I  will  work  out 
my  taxes — somewhere — for  you — " 

The  path -master  hid  her  white  face  in  her  hands. 
Presently  the  collie  dog  came  and  laid  his  head  on  her 
shoulder. 


IN    NAUVOO 


IN    NAUVOO 


THE  long  drought  ended  with  a  cloud-burst  in  the 
western  mountains,  which  tore  a  new  slide  down 
the  flank  of  Lynx  Peak  and  scarred  the  Gilded  Dome 
from  summit  to  base.  Then  storm  followed  storm, 
bursting  through  the  mountain -notch  and  sweeping  the 
river  into  the  meadows,  where  the  haycocks  were  al 
ready  afloat,  and  the  gaunt  mountain  cattle  floundered 
bellowing. 

The  stage  from  White  Lake  arrived  at  noon  with  the 
mail,  and  the  driver  walked  into  the  post-office  and 
slammed  the  soaking  mail -sack  on  the  floor. 

"Gracious!"  said  the  little  post -mistress. 

"Yes  'm,"  said  the  stage-driver,  irrelevantly;  "them 
letters  is  wetter  an'  I'm  madder  'n  a  swimmin'  shanghai! 
Upsot  ?  Yes  'm — in  Snow  Brook.  Road's  awash,  mead- 
ders  is  flooded,  an'  the  water's  a-swashin'  an'  a-sloshin' 
in  them  there  galoshes."  He  waved  one  foot  about 
carelessly,  scattering  muddy  spray,  then  balanced  him 
self  alternately  on  heels  and  toes  to  hear  the  water 
wheeze  in  his  drenched  boots. 

"There  must  be  a  hole  in  the  mail-pouch,"  said  the 
postmistress,  in  gentle  distress. 

There  certainly  was.  The  letters  were  soaked;  the 
wrappers  on  newspaper  and  parcel  had  become  de- 

223 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

tached;  the  interior  of  the  government's  mail-pouch 
resembled  the  preliminary  stages  of  a  paper-pulp  vat. 
But  the  postmistress  worked  so  diligently  among  the 
debris  that  by  one  o'clock  she  had  sorted  and  placed 
in  separate  numbered  boxes  every  letter,  newspaper, 
and  parcel — save  one. 

That  one  was  a  letter  directed  to 

"  James  Helm,  Esq. 

"  Nauvoo,  via  White  Lake." 

and  it  was  so  wet  and  the  gum  that  sealed  it  was  so 
nearly  dissolved  that  the  postmistress  decided  to  place 
it  between  blotters,  pile  two  volumes  of  government 
agricultural  reports  on  it,  and  leave  it  until  dry. 

One  by  one  the  population  of  Nauvoo  came  dripping 
into  the  post-office  for  the  mail,  then  slopped  out  into 
the  storm  again,  umbrellas  couched  in  the  teeth  of  the 
wind.  But  James  Helm  did  not  come  for  his  letter. 

The  postmistress  sat  alone  in  her  office  and  looked 
out  into  her  garden.  It  was  a  very  wet  garden;  the 
hollyhocks  still  raised  their  flowered  spikes  in  the  air; 
the  nasturtiums,  the  verbenas,  and  the  pansies  were 
beaten  down  and  lying  prone  in  muddy  puddles.  She 
wondered  whether  they  would  ever  raise  their  heads 
again — those  delicate  flower-faces  that  she  knew  so  well, 
her  only  friends  in  Nauvoo. 

Through  the  long  drought  she  had  tended  them, 
ministering  to  their  thirst,  protecting  them  from  their 
enemies  the  weeds,  and  from  the  great,  fuzzy,  brown  - 
and-yellow  caterpillars  that  travelled  over  the  fences, 
guided  by  instinct  and  a  raging  appetite.  Now  each 
frail  flower  had  laid  its  slender  length  along  the  earth, 

224 


IN    NAUVOO 

and  the  little  postmistress  watched  them  wistfully  from 
her  rain-stained  window. 

She  had  expected  to  part  with  her  flowers;  she  was 
going  away  forever  in  a  few  days — somewhere — she  was 
not  yet  quite  certain  where.  But  now  that  her  flowers 
lay  prone,  bruised  and  broken,  the  idea  of  leaving  them 
behind  her  distressed  her  sorely. 

She  picked  up  her  crutch  and  walked  to  the  door.  It 
was  no  use;  the  rain  warned  her  back.  She  sat  down 
again  by  the  window  to  watch  her  wounded  flowers. 

There  was  something  else  that  distressed  her,  too,  al 
though  the  paradox  of  parting  from  a  person  she  had 
never  met  ought  to  have  appealed  to  her  sense  of  hu 
mor.  But  she  did  not  think  of  that ;  never,  since  she  had 
been  postmistress  in  Nauvoo,  had  she  spoken  one  word 
to  James  Helm,  nor  had  he  ever  spoken  to  her.  He 
had  a  key  to  his  letter-box;  he  always  came  towards 
evening. 

It  was  exactly  a  year  ago  to-day  that  Helm  came  to 
Nauvoo — a  silent,  pallid  young  fellow  with  unresponsive 
eyes  and  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman.  He  was  cordially 
detested  in  Nauvoo.  For  a  year  she  had  watched  him 
enter  the  post-office,  unlock  his  letter-box,  swing  on  his 
heel,  and  walk  away,  with  never  a  glance  at  her  nor  a 
sign  of  recognition  to  any  of  the  village  people  who 
might  be  there.  She  heard  people  exchange  uncom 
plimentary  opinions  concerning  him;  she  heard  him 
sneered  at,  denounced,  slandered. 

Naturally,  being  young  and  lonely  and  quite  free 
from  malice  towards  anybody,  she  had  time  to  con 
struct  a  romance  around  Helm — a  very  innocent  ro 
mance  of  well-worn  pattern  and  on  most  unoriginal  lines, 
is  225 


|A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Into  this  romance  she  sometimes  conducted  herself, 
blushing  secretly  at  her  mental  indiscretion,  which  in 
discretion  so  worried  her  that  she  dared  not  even  look 
at  Helm  that  evening  when  he  came  for  his  mail.  She 
was  a  grave,  gentle  little  thing — a  child  still  whose  child 
hood  had  been  a  tragedy  and  whose  womanhood  prom 
ised  only  that  shadow  of  happiness  called  contentment 
which  comes  from  a  blameless  life  and  a  nature  which 
accepts  sorrow  without  resentment. 

Thinking  of  Helm  as  she  sat  there  by  the  window, 
she  heard  the  office  clock  striking  five.  Five  was 
Helm's  usual  hour,  so  she  hid  her  crutch.  It  was  her 
one  vanity — that  he  should  not  know  that  she  was 
lame. 

She  rose  and  lifted  the  two  volumes  of  agricultural 
reports  from  the  blotters  where  Helm's  letter  lay,  then 
she  carefully  raised  one  blotter.  To  her  dismay  half 
of  the  envelope  stuck  to  the  blotting-paper,  leaving  the 
contents  of  the  letter  open  to  her  view. 

On  the  half-envelope  lay  an  object  apparently  so  pe 
culiarly  terrifying  that  the  little  postmistress  caught 
her  breath  and  turned  quite  white  at  sight  of  it.  And 
yet  it  was  only  a  square  bit  of  paper,  perfectly  blank 
save  for  half  a  dozen  thread-like  lines  scattered  through 
its  texture. 

For  a  long  while  the  postmistress  stood  staring  at  the 
half-envelope  and  the  bit  of  blank  paper.  Then  with 
trembling  fingers  she  lighted  a  lamp  and  held  the  little 
piece  of  paper  over  the  chimney — carefully.  When 
the  paper  was  warm  she  raised  it  up  to  the  light 
and  read  the  scrawl  that  the  sympathetic  ink  re 
vealed  : 

226 


IN    NAUVOO 

"I  send  you  a  sample  of  the  latest  style  fibre.  Look  out  for 
the  new  postmaster  at  Nauvoo.  He's  a  secret-service  spy,  and 
he's  been  sent  to  see  what  you  are  doing.  This  is  the  last  letter 
I  dare  send  you  by  mail." 

There  was  no  signature  to  the  message,  but  a  signa 
ture  was  not  necessary  to  tell  the  postmistress  who  had 
written  the  letter.  With  set  lips  and  tearless  eyes  she 
watched  the  writing  fade  slowly  on  the  paper;  and 
when  again  the  paper  was  blank  she  sank  down  by  the 
window,  laying  her  head  in  her  arms. 

A  few  moments  later  Helm  came  in  wrapped  in  a 
shining  wet  mackintosh.  He  glanced  at  his  box,  saw  it 
was  empty,  wheeled  squarely  on  his  heels,  and  walked 
out. 

Towards  sunset  the  rain  dissolved  to  mist;  a  trail  of 
vapor  which  marked  the  course  of  an  unseen  brook 
floated  high  among  the  hemlocks.  There  was  no  wind; 
the  feathery  tips  of  the  pines,  powdered  with  rain-spray, 
rose  motionless  in  the  still  air.  Suddenly  the  sun's  red 
search-light  played  through  the  forest ;  long,  warm  rays 
fell  across  wet  moss,  rain-drenched  ferns  dripped,  the 
swamp  steamed.  In  the  east  the  thunder  still  boomed, 
and  faint  lightning  flashed  under  the  smother  of  sombre 
clouds;  but  the  storm  had  rolled  off  among  the  moun 
tains,  and  already  a  white-throated  sparrow  was  calling 
from  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  It  promised  to  be  a 
calm  evening  in  Nauvoo. 

Meanwhile,  Helm  walked  on  down  the  muddy  road, 
avoiding  the  puddles  which  the  sun  turned  into  pools 
of  liquid  flame.  He  heard  the  catbirds  mewing  in  the 
alders;  he  heard  the  evening  carol  of  the  robin — that 
sweet,  sleepy,  thrushlike  warble  which  always  prom- 

227 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

ises  a  melody  that  never  follows;  he  picked  a  spray  of 
rain-drenched  hemlock  as  he  passed,  crushing  it  in  his 
firm,  pale  fingers  to  inhale  the  fragrance.  Now  in  the 
glowing  evening  the  bull  -  bats  were  soaring  and  tum 
bling,  and  the  tree-frogs  trilled  from  the  darkling  past 
ures. 

Around  the  bend  in  the  road  his  house  stood  all  alone, 
a  small,  single-storied  cottage  in  a  tangled  garden.  He 
passed  in  at  his  gate,  but  instead  of  unlocking  the  front 
door  he  began  to  examine  the  house  as  though  he  had 
never  before  seen  it;  he  scrutinized  every  window,  he 
made  a  cautious,  silent  tour  of  the  building,  returning 
to  stare  again  at  the  front  door. 

The  door  was  locked;  he  never  left  the  house  without 
locking  it,  and  he  never  returned  without  approaching 
the  house  in  alert  silence,  as  though  it  might  conceal  an 
enemy. 

There  was  no  sound  of  his  footfalls  as  he  mounted  the 
steps;  the  next  instant  he  was  inside  the  house,  his  back 
against  the  closed  door — listening.  As  usual,  he  heard 
nothing  except  the  ticking  of  a  clock  somewhere  in  the 
house,  and  as  usual  he  slipped  his  revolver  back  into  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat  and  fitted  a  key  into  the  door 
on  his  left.  The  room  was  pitch  dark;  he  lighted  a  can 
dle  and  held  it  up,  shading  his  eyes  with  a  steady  hand. 

There  was  a  table,  a  printing-press,  and  one  chair  in 
the  room;  the  table  was  littered  with  engraver's  tools, 
copper  plates,  bottles  of  acid,  packets  of  fibre  paper,  and 
photographic  paraphernalia.  A  camera,  a  reading-lamp, 
and  a  dark-lantern  stood  on  a  shelf  beside  a  nickel-plated 
clock  which  ticked  sharply. 

The  two  windows  in  the  room  had  been  sealed  up 

228 


IN    NAUVOO 

with  planks,  over  which  sheet  iron  was  nailed.  The  door 
also  had  been  reinforced  with  sheet -iron.  From  a  peg 
above  it  a  repeating-rifle  hung  festooned  with  two  car 
tridge  belts. 

When  he  had  filled  his  lamp  from  a  can  of  kerosene 
he  lighted  it  and  sat  down  to  the  task  before  him  with 
even  less  interest  than  usual — and  his  interest  had  been 
waning  for  weeks.  For  the  excitement  that  makes 
crime  interesting  had  subsided  and  the  novelty  was  gone. 
There  was  no  longer  anything  in  his  crime  that  appealed 
to  his  intellect.  The  problem  of  successfully  accomplish 
ing  crime  was  no  longer  a  problem  to  him;  he  had 
solved  it.  The  twelve  months'  work  on  the  plate  be 
fore  him  demonstrated  this;  the  plate  was  perfect;  the 
counterfeit  an  absolute  fac-simile.  The  government 
stood  to  lose  whatever  he  chose  to  take  from  it. 

As  an  artist  in  engraving  and  as  an  intelligent  man, 
Helm  was,  or  had  been,  proud  of  his  work.  But  for  that 
very  reason,  because  he  was  an  artist,  he  had  tired  of 
his  masterpiece,  and  was  already  fingering  a  new  plate, 
vaguely  meditating  better  and  more  ambitious  work. 
Why  not  ?  Why  should  he  not  employ  his  splendid 
skill  and  superb  accuracy  in  something  original  ?  That 
is  where  the  artist  and  the  artisan  part  company — the 
artisan  is  always  content  to  copy;  the  artist,  once  mas 
ter  of  his  tools,  creates. 

In  Helm  the  artist  was  now  in  the  ascendant;  he 
dreamed  of  engraving  living  things  direct  from  nature 
— the  depths  of  forests  shot  with  sunshine,  scrubby  up 
lands  against  a  sky  crowded  with  clouds,  and  perhaps 
cattle  nosing  for  herbage  among  the  rank  fern  and 
tangled  briers  of  a  scanty  pasture — perhaps  even  the 

229 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

shy,  wild  country  children,  bareheaded  and  naked  of 
knee  and  shoulder,  half-tamed,  staring  from  the  road 
side  brambles. 

It  is,  of  course,  possible  that  Helm  was  a  natural-born 
criminal,  yet  his  motive  for  trying  his  skill  at  counter 
feiting  was  revenge  and  not  personal  gain. 

He  had  served  his  apprenticeship  in  the  Bureau  of 
Engraving  and  Printing.  He  had  served  the  govern 
ment  for  twelve  years,  through  three  administrations. 
Being  a  high  salaried  employe',  the  civil  service  gave 
him  no  protection  when  the  quadrennial  double-shuffle 
changed  the  politics  of  the  administration.  He  was 
thrown  aside  like  a  shabby  garment  which  has  served 
its  purpose,  and  although  for  years  he  had  known  what 
ultimate  reward  was  reserved  for  those  whom  the  re 
public  hires,  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  believe  that 
years  of  faithful  labor  and  a  skill  which  increased  with 
every  new  task  set  could  meet  the  common  fate.  So 
when  his  resignation  was  requested,  and  when,  refusing 
indignantly,  he  was  turned  out,  neck  and  heels,  after 
his  twelve  years  of  faultless  service,  it  changed  the  man 
terribly. 

He  went  away  with  revenge  in  his  mind  and  the  skill 
and  intelligence  to  accomplish  it.  But  now  that  he 
had  accomplished  it,  and  the  plate  was  finished,  and  the 
government  at  his  mercy,  the  incentive  to  consummate 
his  revenge  lagged.  After  all,  what  could  he  revenge 
himself  on  ?  The  government  ?  —  that  huge,  stupid, 
abstract  bulk!  Had  it  a  shape,  a  form  concrete,  nerves, 
that  it  could  suffer  in  its  turn?  Even  if  it  could  suffer, 
after  all,  he  was  tired  of  suffering.  There  was  no  nov 
elty  in  it. 

230 


IN    NAUVOO 

Perhaps  his  recent  life  alone  in  the  sweet,  wholesome 
woods  had  soothed  a  bitter  and  rebellious  heart.  There 
is  a  balm  for  deepest  wounds  in  the  wind,  and  in  the 
stillness  of  a  wilderness  there  is  salve  for  souls. 

As  he  sat  there  brooding,  or  dreaming  of  the  work  he 
might  yet  do,  there  stole  into  his  senses  that  impal 
pable  consciousness  of  another  presence,  near,  and 
coming  nearer.  Alert,  silent,  he  rose,  and  as  he  turned 
he  heard  the  front  gate  click.  In  an  instant  he  had 
extinguished  lamp  and  candle,  and,  stepping  back  into 
the  hallway,  he  laid  his  ear  to  the  door. 

In  the  silence  he  heard  steps  along  the  gravel,  then  on 
the  porch.  There  was  a  pause;  leaning  closer  to  the 
door  he  could  hear  the  rapid,  irregular  breathing  of  his 
visitor.  Knocking  began  at  last,  a  very  gentle  rapping; 
silence,  another  uncertain  rap,  then  the  sound  of  retreat 
ing  steps  from  the  gravel,  and  the  click  of  the  gate-latch. 
With  one  hand  covering  the  weapon  in  his  coat -pocket, 
he  opened  the  door  without  a  sound  and  stepped  out. 

A  young  girl  stood  just  outside  his  gate. 

"Who  are  you  and  what  is  your  business  with  this 
house?"  he  inquired,  grimly.  The  criminal  in  him  was 
now  in  the  ascendant;  he  was  alert,  cool,  suspicious, 
and  insolent.  He  saw  in  anybody  who  approached  his 
house  the  menace  of  discovery,  perhaps  an  intentional 
and  cunning  attempt  to  entrap  and  destroy  him.  All 
that  was  evil  in  him  came  to  the  surface ;  the  fear  that 
anybody  might  forcibly  frustrate  his  revenge — if  he 
chose  to  revenge  himself — raised  a  demon  in  him  that 
blanched  his  naturally  pallid  face  and  started  his  lip 
muscles  into  that  curious  recession  which,  in  animals, 
is  the  first  symptom  of  the  snarl. 

231 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  repeated.  "Why  do  you 
knock  and  then  slink  away?" 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  at  home,"  said  the  girl, 
faintly. 

"Then  why  do  you  come  knocking?  Who  are  you, 
anyway  ?"  he  demanded,  harshly,  knowing  perfectly  well 
who  she  was. 

"I  am  the  postmistress  at  Nauvoo,"  she  faltered— 
"that  is,  I  was — " 

"Really,"  he  said,  angrily;  "your  intelligence  might 
teach  you  to  go  where  you  are  more  welcome." 

His  brutality  seemed  to  paralyze  the  girl.  She  look 
ed  at  him  as  though  attempting  to  comprehend  his 
meaning.  "Are  you  not  Mr.  Helm?"  she  asked,  in  a 
sweet,  bewildered  voice. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  he  replied,  shortly. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,"  she  continued,  in 
the  same  stunned  voice. 

"I'm  not,"  said  Helm,  bitterly.  "I  fancy  you  will 
agree  with  me,  too.  Good-night." 

He  deliberately  turned  his  back  on  her  and  sat  down 
on  the  wooden  steps  of  the  porch ;  but  his  finely  modelled 
ears  were  alert  and  listening,  and  when  to  his  amaze 
ment  he  heard  her  open  his  gate  again  and  re-enter,  he 
swung  around  with  eyes  contracting  wickedly. 

She  met  his  evil  glance  quite  bravely,  wincing  when 
he  invited  her  to  leave  the  yard.  But  she  came  nearer, 
crossing  the  rank,  soaking  grass,  and  stood  beside  him 
where  he  was  sitting. 

"May  I  tell  you  something?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  pass  your  way?"  he 
answered,  rising. 

232 


IN    NAUVOO 

"Not  yet,"  she  replied,  and  seated  herself  on  the 
steps.  The  next  moment  she  was  crying,  silently,  but 
that  only  lasted  until  she  could  touch  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief. 

He  stood  above  her  on  the  steps.  Perhaps  it  was 
astonishment  that  sealed  his  lips,  perhaps  decency. 
He  had  noticed  that  she  was  slightly  lame,  although 
her  slender  figure  appeared  almost  faultless.  He  waited 
for  a  moment. 

Far  on  the  clearing's  dusky  edge  a  white-throated 
sparrow  called  persistently  to  a  mate  that  did  not  an 
swer. 

If  Helm  felt  alarm  or  feared  treachery  his  voice  did 
not  betray  it.  "What  is  the  trouble?"  he  demanded, 
less  roughly. 

She  said,  without  looking  at  him:  "I  have  deceived 
you.  There  was  a  letter  for  you  to-day.  It  came  apart 
and — I  found — this — " 

She  held  out  a  bit  of  paper.  He  took  it  mechanically. 
His  face  had  suddenly  turned  gray. 

The  paper  was  fibre  paper.  He  stood  there  breathless, 
his  face  a  ghastly,  bloodless  mask;  and  when  he  found 
his  voice  it  was  only  the  ghost  of  a  voice. 

"What  is  all  this  about  ?"  he  asked. 

"About  fibre  paper,"  she  answered,  looking  up  at 
him. 

"Fibre  paper!"  he  repeated,  confounded  by  her  can 
dor. 

"Yes  —  government  fibre.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  it  is?" 

For  the  first  time  there  was  bitterness  in  her  voice. 
She  turned  partly  around,  supporting  her  body  on  one 

233 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

arm.     "Fibre  paper?     Ah,  yes — I   know  what  it   is," 
she  said  again. 

He  looked  her  squarely  in  the  eyes  and  he  saw  in  her 
face  that  she  knew  what  he  was  and  what  he  had  been 
doing  in  Nauvoo.  The  blood  slowly  stained  his  pallid 
cheeks. 

"Well,"  he  said,  coolly,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

His  eyes  began  to  grow  narrow  and  the  lines  about 
his  mouth  deepened.  The  criminal  in  him,  brought  to 
bay,  watched  every  movement  of  the  young  girl  before 
him.  Tranquil  and  optimistic,  he  quietly  seated  him 
self  on  the  wooden  steps  beside  her.  Little  he  cared  for 
her  and  her  discovery.  It  would  take  more  than  a 
pretty,  lame  girl  to  turn  him  from  his  destiny;  and  his 
destiny  was  what  he  chose  to  make  it.  He  almost 
smiled  at  her. 

"So,"  he  said,  in  smooth,  even  tones,  "you  think  the 
game  is  up?" 

"Yes;  but  nothing  need  harm  you,"  she  answered, 
eagerly. 

"Harm  me!"  he  repeated,  with  an  ugly  sneer;  then  a 
sudden,  wholesome  curiosity  seized  him,  and  he  blurted 
out,  "But  what  do  you  care?" 

Looking  up  at  him,  she  started  to  reply,  and  the 
words  failed  her.  She  bent  her  head  in  silence. 

"Why?"  he  demanded  again. 

"I  have  often  seen  you,"  she  faltered;  "I  sometimes 
thought  you  were  unhappy." 

"But  why  do  you  come  to  warn  me?  People  hate 
me  in  Nauvoo." 

"I  do  not  hate  you,"  she  replied,  faintly. 

234 


IN    NAUVOO 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

A  star  suddenly  gleamed  low  over  the  forest's  level 
crest.  Night  had  fallen  in  Nauvoo.  After  a  silence 
he  said,  in  an  altered  voice,  "Am  I  to  understand  that 
you  came  to  warn  a  common  criminal?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  am  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"You  are  counterfeiting." 

"  How  do  you  know,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  menace 
in  his  sullen  voice. 

"Because — because — my  father  did  it — " 

"Did  what?" 

"Counterfeited  —  what  you  are  doing  now!"  she 
gasped.  "That  is  how  I  know  about  the  fibre.  I 
knew  it  the  moment  I  saw  it — government  fibre — and  I 
knew  what  was  on  it;  the  flame  justified  me.  And  oh, 
I  could  not  let  them  take  you  as  they  took  father — to 
prison  for  all  those  years!" 

"Your  father!"  he  blurted  out. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  revolted;  "and  his  handwriting  is 
on  that  piece  of  paper  in  your  hand!" 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  evening  the  rushing 
of  a  distant  brook  among  the  hemlocks  grew  loud 
er,  increasing  on  the  night  wind  like  the  sound  of 
a  distant  train  on  a  trestle.  Then  the  wind  died 
out;  a  night  bird  whistled  in  the  starlight;  a  white 
moth  hummed  up  and  down  the  vines  over  the 
porch. 

"  I  know  who  you  are  now,"  the  girl  continued;  "you 

235 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

knew  my  father  in  the  Bureau  of  Engraving  and  Print 
ing." 

"Yes." 

"  And  your  name  is  not  Helm." 

"No." 

"Do  you  not  know  that  the  government  watches  dis 
charged  employe's  of  the  Bureau  of  Engraving  and 
Printing?" 

"I  know  it." 

"So  you  changed  your  name?" 

"Yes." 

She  leaned  nearer,  looking  earnestly  into  his  shadowy 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  that  an  officer  of  the  secret  service  is 
coming  to  Nauvoo?" 

"I  could  take  the  plate  and  go.  There  is  time,"  he 
answered,  sullenly. 

"Yes — there  is  time."  A  dry  sob  choked  her.  He 
heard  the  catch  in  her  voice,  but  he  did  not  move  his 
eyes  from  the  ground.  His  heart  seemed  to  have  grown 
curiously  heavy;  a  strange  inertia  weighted  his  limbs. 
Fear,  anger,  bitterness,  nay,  revenge  itself,  had  died 
out,  leaving  not  a  tranquil  mind  but  a  tired  one.  The 
pulse  scarcely  beat  in  his  body.  After  a  while  the 
apathy  of  mind  and  body  appeared  to  rest  him.  He 
was  so  tired  of  hate. 

" Give  me  the  keys,"  she  whispered.  " Is  it  in  there? 
Where  is  the  plate?  In  that  room?  Give  me  the 
keys." 

As  in  a  dream  he  handed  her  his  keys.  Through  a 
lethargy  which  was  almost  a  stupor  he  saw  her  enter  his 
house;  he  heard  her  unlock  the  door  of  the  room  where 

236 


IN    NAUVOO 

his  plates  lay.  After  a  moment  she  found  a  match  and 
lighted  the  candles.  Helm  sat  heavily  on  the  steps,  his 
head  on  his  breast,  dimly  aware  that  she  was  pass 
ing  and  repassing,  carrying  bottles  and  armfuls  of 
tools  and  paper  and  plates  out  into  the  darkness  some 
where. 

It  may  have  been  a  few  minutes ;  it  may  have  been  an 
hour  before  she  returned  to  him  on  the  steps,  breathing 
rapidly,  her  limp  gown  clinging  to  her  limbs,  her  dark 
hair  falling  to  her  shoulders. 

"The  plates  and  acids  will  never  be  found,"  she  said, 
breathlessly;  "I  put  everything  into  the  swamp.  It  is 
quicksand." 

For  a  long  time  neither  spoke.  At  length  she  slowly 
turned  away  towards  the  gate,  and  he  rose  and  followed, 
scarcely  aware  of  what  he  was  doing. 

At  the  gate  she  stooped  and  pushed  a  dark  object  out 
of  sight  under  the  bushes  by  the  fence. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  he  said,  bending  beside  her. 

"No,  no;  don't,"  she  stammered;  "it  is  nothing." 

He  found  it  and  handed  it  to  her.  It  was  her  crutch ; 
and  she  turned  crimson  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"Lean  on  me,"  he  said,  very  gently. 

The  girl  bit  her  trembling  lip  till  the  blood  came. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said,  crushing  back  her  tears;  "my 
crutch  is  enough — but  you  need  not  have  known  it. 
Kindness  is  comparative;  one  can  be  too  kind." 

He  misunderstood  her  and  drew  back.  "I  forgot," 
he  said,  quietly,  "what  privileges  ^are  denied  to  crim 
inals." 

"Privilege!"  she  faltered.  After  a  moment  she  laid 
one  hand  on  his  arm. 

237 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  of  your  help,"  she  said;  "I  am 
more  lame  than  I  wish  the  world  to  know.  It  was  only 
the  vanity  of  a  cripple  that  refused  you." 

But  he  thought  her  very  beautiful  as  she  passed  with 
him  out  into  the  starlight. 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 


THROUGH  the  open  window  the  spring  sunshine 
fell  on  Calvert's  broad  back.  Tennant  faced  the 
window,  smoking  reflectively. 

"I  should  like  to  ask  a  favor,"  he  said;  "may  I?" 

"Certainly  you  may,"  replied  Calvert;  "everybody 
else  asks  favors  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  times  a 
year." 

Tennant,  smoking  peacefully,  gazed  at  an  open  win 
dow  across  the  narrow  court -yard,  where,  in  the  sun 
shine,  a  young  girl  sat  sewing. 

"The  favor,"  he  said,  "is  this:  there  is  a  vacancy 
on  the  staff,  and  I  wish  you'd  give  Marlitt  another 
chance." 

"Marlitt!"  exclaimed  Calvert.     "Why  Marlitt?" 

"Because,"  said  Tennant,  "I  understand  that  I  am 
wearing  Marlitt 's  shoes — and  the  shoes  pinch." 

"  Marlitt 's  shoes  would  certainly  pinch  you  if  you  were 
wearing  them,"  said  Calvert,  grimly.  "But  you  are 
not.  Suppose  you  were?  Better  wear  even  Marlitt's 
shoes  than  hop  about  the  world  barefoot.  You  are  a 
singularly  sensitive  young  man.  I  come  up-town  to 
i<5  241 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

offer  you  Warrington's  place,  and  your  reply  is  a  hom 
ily  on  Marlitt's  shoes!" 

Cal vert's  black  eyes  began  to  snap  and  his  fat,  pink 
face  turned  pinker. 

"Mr.  Tennant,"  he  said,  "I  am  useful  to  those  who 
are  useful  to  me.  I  am  a  business  man.  I  know  of  no 
man  or  syndicate  of  men  wealthy  enough  to  conduct  a 
business  for  the  sake  of  giving  employment  to  the  un 
successful!" 

Tennant  smoked  thoughtfully. 

"Some  incompetent,"  continued  Cal  vert,  "is  trying 
to  make  you  uncomfortable.  You  asked  us  for  a 
chance ;  we  gave  you  the  chance.  You  proved  valuable 
to  us,  and  we  gave  you  Marlitt's  job.  You  need  not 
worry:  Marlitt  was  useless,  and  had  to  go  anyway. 
Warrington  left  us  to-day,  and  you've  got  to  do  his 
work." 

Tennant  regarded  him  in  silence;  Calvert  laid  one 
pudgy  hand  on  the  door-knob.  "You  know  what  we 
think  of  your  work.  There  is  not  a  man  in  New  York 
who  has  your  chance.  All  I  say  is,  we  gave  you  the 
chance  and  you  took  it.  Keep  it;  that's  what  we  ask!" 

"That  is  what  7  ask,"  said  Tennant,  with  a  troubled 
laugh.  "I  am  sentimentalist  enough  to  feel  something 
like  gratitude  towards  those  who  gave  me  my  first  op 
portunity." 

"Obligation's  mutual,"  snapped  Calvert.  The  hard 
ness  in  his  eyes,  however,  had  died  out.  "You'd  better 
finish  that  double  page,"  he  added;  "they  want  to 
start  the  color-work  by  Monday.  You'll  hear  from  us 
if  there's  any  delay.  Good-bye." 

Tennant  opened  the  door  for  him;  Calvert,  buttoning 

242 


'l    WISH    YOU'D    GIVE    MARLITT    ANOTHER    CHANCE 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

his  gloves,  stepped  out  into  the  hallway  and  rang  for 
the  elevator.  Then  he  turned: 

"Don't  let  envy  make  things  unpleasant  for  you,  Mr. 
Tennant." 

"Nobody  has  shown  me  any  envy,"  said  Tennant. 

"I  thought  you  said  something  about  your  friend 
Marlitt— " 

"  I  never  saw  Marlitt ;  I  only  know  his  work." 

"Oh,"  said  Calvert,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  "you  only 
know  his  work!" 

"That  is  all.     Who  is  Marlitt  ?" 

"The  last  of  an  old  New  York  family;  reduced  cir 
cumstances,  proud,  incompetent,  unsuccessful.  Why 
does  the  artist  who  signs  'Marlitt'  interest  you?" 

"This  is  why,"  said  Tennant,  and  drew  a  letter  from 
his  pocket.  "Do  you  mind  listening?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Calvert,  with  a  wry  face.  And  Ten 
nant  began: 

'"DEAR  MR.  TENNANT, — Just  a  few  words  to  express  my 
keenest  interest  and  delight  in  the  work  you  are  doing — not 
only  the  color  work,  but  the  pen-and-ink.  You  know  that  the 
public  has  made  you  their  idol,  but  I  thought  you  might  care  to 
know  what  the  unsuccessful  in  your  own  profession  think.  You 
have  already  taught  us  so  much;  you  are,  week  by  week,  raising 
the  standard  so  high;  and  you  are  doing  so  much  for  me,  that  I 
venture  to  thank  you  and  wish  you  still  greater  happiness  and 
success.  MARLITT.'" 

Calvert  looked  up.     "  Is  that  all  ?" 

"That  is  all.  There  is  neither  date  nor  address  on 
the  note.  I  wrote  to  Marlitt  care  of  your  office.  Your 
office  forwarded  it,  I  see,  but  the  post-office  returned  it 
to  me  to-day.  .  .  .  What  has  become  of  Marlitt?" 

243 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Calvert  touched  the  elevator  -  bell  again.  "If  I 
knew,"  he  said,  "I'd  find  a  place  for — Marlitt." 

Tennant's  face  lighted.  Calvert,  scowling,  avoided 
his  eyes. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  he  said,  peevishly, 
"that  there  is  no  sentiment  in  this  matter." 

"I  understand,"  said  Tennant. 

"You  think  you  do,"  sneered  Calvert,  stepping  into 
the  elevator.  The  door  slammed;  the  cage  descended; 
the  fat,  pink  countenance  of  Calvert,  distorted  into  a 
furious  sneer,  slowly  sank  out  of  sight. 


II 

Tennant  entered  his  studio  and  closed  the  door.  In 
the  mellow  light  the  smile  faded  from  his  face.  Per 
haps  he  was  thinking  of  the  unsuccessful,  from  whose 
crowded  ranks  he  had  risen — comrades  preordained 
to  mediocrity,  foredoomed  to  failure  —  industrious, 
hopeful,  brave  young  fellows,  who  must  live  their  lives 
to  learn  the  most  terrible  of  all  lessons — that  bravery 
alone  wins  no  battles. 

"What  luck  I  have  had!"  he  said,  aloud,  to  himself, 
walking  over  to  the  table  and  seating  himself  before 
the  drawing.  For  an  hour  he  studied  it;  touched  it 
here  and  there,  caressing  outlines,  swinging  masses  into 
vigorous  composition  with  a  touch  of  point  or  a  sweep 
ing  erasure.  Strength,  knowledge,  command  were  his; 
he  knew  it,  and  he  knew  the  pleasure  of  it. 
_  Having  finished  the  drawing,  he  unpinned  the  pencil 
studies,  replacing  each  by  its  detail  in  color — charming 

244 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

studies  executed  with  sober  precision,  yet  sparkling  with 
a  gayety  that  no  reticence  and  self-denial  could  dim. 
He  dusted  the  drawing,  tacked  on  tracing-paper,  and 
began  to  transfer,  whistling  softly  as  he  bent  above  his 
work. 

Sunlight  fell  across  the  corner  of  the  table,  glittering 
among  glasses,  saucers  of  porcelain,  crystal  bowls  in 
which  brushes  dipped  in  brilliant  colors  had  been  rinsed. 
To  escape  the  sun  he  rolled  the  table  back  a  little  way, 
then  continued,  using  the  ivory-pointed  tracing-stylus. 
He  worked  neither  rapidly  nor  slowly;  there  was  a  lei 
surely  precision  in  his  progress;  pencil,  brush,  tracer, 
eraser,  did  their  errands  surely,  steadily.  Yet  already 
he  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  rapid  worker 
in  his  craft. 

During  intervals  when  he  leaned  back  to  stretch  his 
muscles  and  light  a  cigarette  his  eyes  wandered  towards 
a  window  just  across  the  court,  where  sometimes  a  girl 
sat.  She  was  there  now,  rocking  in  a  dingy  rocking- 
chair,  stitching  away  by  her  open  window.  Once  or 
twice  she  turned  her  head  and  glanced  across  at  him. 
After  an  interval  he  laid  his  cigarette  on  the  edge  of  a 
saucer  and  resumed  his  work.  In  the  golden  gloom  of 
the  studio  the  stillness  was  absolute,  save  for  the  deli 
cate  stir  of  a  curtain  rustling  at  his  open  window.  A 
breeze  moved  the  hair  on  his  temples ;  his  eyes  wandered 
towards  the  window  across  the  court.  The  window 
was  so  close  that  they  could  have  conversed  together 
had  they  known  each  other. 

In  the  court  new  grass  was  growing;  grimy  shrub 
bery  had  freshened  into  green ;  a  tree  was  already  in  full 
leaf.  Here  and  there  cats  sprawled  on  sun-warmed 

245 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

roofs,  sparrows  chirked  under  eaves  from  whence  wisps 
of  litter  trailed,  betraying  hidden  nests. 

Below  his  window,  hanging  in  heavy  twists,  a  wis 
taria  twined,  its  long  bunches  of  lilac-tinted  blossoms 
alive  with  bees. 

His  eyes  followed  the  flight  of  a  shabby  sparrow.  "  If 
I  were  a  bird,"  he  said,  aloud,  "I'd  not  be  idiot  enough 
to  live  in  a  New  York  back  yard."  And  he  resumed 
his  work,  whistling. 

But  the  languor  of  spring  was  in  his  veins,  and  he  bent 
forward  again,  sniffing  the  mjld  air.  The  witchery  of 
spring  had  also  drawn  his  neighbor  to  her  window, 
where  she  leaned  on  the  sill,  cheeks  in  her  hands,  list 
lessly  watching  the  flight  of  the  sparrows. 

The  little  creatures  were  nest -building;  from  moment 
to  moment  a  bird  fluttered  up  towards  the  eaves,  bear 
ing  with  it  a  bit  of  straw,  a  feather  sometimes,  some 
times  a  twisted  end  of  string. 

"It's  spring -fever,"  he  yawned,  passing  one  hand 
over  his  eyes.  "I  feel  like  rolling  on  the  grass — there's 
a  puppy  in  that  yard  doing  it  now — " 

He  washed  a  badger  brush  and  dried  it.  Perfume 
from  the  wistaria  filled  his  throat  and  lungs;  his  very 
breath,  exhaling,  seemed  sweetened  with  the  scent. 

"There's  that  girl  across  the  way,"  he  said,  aloud, 
as  though  making  the  discovery  for  the  first  time. 

Sunshine  now  lay  in  dazzling  white  patches  across 
his  drawing.  He  blinked,  washed  another  brush,  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  again,  looking  across  at  his 
neighbor.  Youth  is  in  itself  attractive;  and  she  was 
young — a  white-skinned,  dark-eyed  girl,  a  trifle  color 
less,  perhaps,  like  a  healthy  plant  needing  the  sun. 

246 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

"They  grow  like  that  in  this  town,"  he  reflected, 
drumming  idly  on  the  table  with  his  pencil.  "Who  is 
she?  I've  seen  her  there  for  months,  and  I  don't 
know." 

The  girl  raised  her  dark  eyes  and  gave  him  a  serene 
stare. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  muttered,  "I  see  your  eyes,  but  they 
tell  me  nothing  about  you.  You're  all  alike  when  you 
look  at  us  out  of  the  windows  called  eyes.  What's  be 
hind  those  eyes?  Nobody  knows.  Nobody  knows." 

He  dropped  his  hand  on  the  table  and  began  tracing 
arabesques  with  his  pencil-point.  Then  his  capricious 
fancy  blossomed  into  a  sketch  of  his  neighbor  —  a 
rapid  idealization,  which  first  amused,  then  enthralled 
him. 

And  while  his  pencil  flew  he  murmured  lazily  to  him 
self:  "You  don't  know  what  I'm  doing,  do  you?  I 
wonder  what  you'd  do  if  you  did  know?  .  .  .  Thank 
you,  ma  belle,  for  sitting  so  still.  Won't  you  smile  a 
little  ?  No  ?  .  .  .  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  ? — with 
your  dimpled  white  hands  framing  your  face.  ...  I 
had  no  idea  you  were  half  so  lovely!  ...  or  is  it  my 
fancy  and  my  pencil  which  endow  you  with  qualities 
that  you  do  not  possess?  .  .  .  There!  you  moved.  Don't 
let  it  occur  again."  .  .  . 

He  passed  a  soft  eraser  over  the  sketch,  dimming  its 
outline;  picked  out  a  brush  and  began  in  color,  rambling 
on  in  easy,  listless  self-communion:  "I've  asked  you 
who  you  are  and  you  haven't  told  me.  Pas  chic,  ga. 
There  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  dark-eyed  little 
things  like  you  in  this  city.  Did  you  ever  see  the 
streets  when  the  shops  close  ?  There  are  thousands  and 

247 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

thousands  like  you  in  the  throng; — some  poor,  some 
poorer;  some  good,  some  better;  some  young,  some 
younger;  all  trotting  across  the  world  on  eager  feet. 
Where?  Nobody  knows.  Why?  Nobody  knows- 
Heigh-ho!  Your  portrait  is  done,  little  neighbor." 

He  hovered  over  the  delicate  sketch,  silent  a  mo 
ment,  under  the  spell  of  his  own  work.  "If  you  were 
like  this,  a  man  might  fall  in  love  with  you,"  he  mut 
tered,  raising  his  eyes. 

The  development  of  ideas  is  always  remarkable,  par 
ticularly  on  a  sunny  day  in  spring-time.  Sunshine, 
blue  sky,  and  the  perfume  of  the  wistaria  were  too  much 
for  Tennant. 

"I'm  going  out!"  he  said,  abruptly,  and  put  on  his 
hat.  Then  he  drew  on  his  gloves,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  glanced  across  at  his  neighbor. 

"  I  wish  you  were  going,  too,"  he  said. 

His  neighbor  had  risen  and  was  now  standing  by  her 
window,  hands  clasped  behind  her,  gazing  dreamily  out 
into  the  sunshine. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Tennant,  "you  are  really  as 
pretty  as  my  sketch!  Now  isn't  that  curious?  I  had 
no  idea — 

A  rich  tint  crept  into  his  neighbor's  face,  staining  the 
white  skin  with  carmine. 

"The  sun  is  doing  you  good,"  he  said,  approvingly. 
"You  ought  to  put  on  your  hat  and  go  out." 

She  turned,  as  though  she  had  heard  his  words,  and 
picked  up  a  big,  black  straw  hat,  placing  it  daintily  upon 
her  head. 

"Well! — if — that — isn't — curious!"  said  Tennant,  as 
tonished,  as  she  swung  nonchalantly  towards  an  in- 

248 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

visible  mirror  and  passed  a  long,  gilded  pin  through  the 
crown  of  her  hat. 

"It  seems  that  I  only  have  to  suggest  a  thing — 
He  hesitated,  watching  her. 

"Of  course  it  was  coincidence,"  he  said;  "but — sup 
pose  it  wasn't?     Suppose  it  was  telepathy  —  thought 
transmitted?" 
,    His  neighbor  was  buttoning  her  gloves. 

"I'm  a  beast  to  stand  here  staring,"  he  murmured, 
as  she  moved  leisurely  towards  her  window,  apparently 
unconscious  of  him.  "It's  a  shame,"  he  added,  "that 
we  don't  know  each  other!  I'm  going  to  the  Park;  I 
wish  you  were — I  want  you  to  go — because  it  would 
do  you  good!  You  must  go!" 

Her  left  glove  was  now  buttoned ;  the  right  gave  her 
some  difficulty,  which  she  started  to  overcome  with  a 
hair-pin. 

"If  mental  persuasion  can  do  it,  you  and  I  are  going 
to  meet  under  the  wistaria  arbor  in  the  Park,"  he  said, 
with  emphasis. 

To  concentrate  his  thoughts  he  stood  rigid,  thinking 
as  hard  as  a  young  man  can  think  with  a  distractingly 
pretty  girl  fastening  her  glove  opposite;  and  the  effort 
produced  a  deep  crease  between  his  eyebrows. 

"  You  —  are  —  going  —  to  —  the  —  wistaria  —  arbor 
— in — the  Park!"  he  repeated,  solemnly. 

She  turned  as  though  she  had  heard,  and  looked 
straight  at  him.  Her  face  was  bright  with  color;  never 
had  he  seen  such  fresh  beauty  in  a  human  face. 

Her  eyes  wandered  from  him  upward  to  the  serene 
blue  sky;  then  she  stepped  back,  glanced  into  the  mir 
ror,  touched  her  hair  with  the  tips  of  her  gloved  fingers, 

249 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

and  walked  away,  disappearing  into  the  gloom  of  the 
room. 

An  astonishing  sense  of  loneliness  came  over  him — 
a  perfectly  unreasonable  feeling,  because  every  day  for 
months  he  had  seen  her  disappear  from  the  window, 
always  viewing  the  phenomenon  with  disinterested 
equanimity. 

"  Now  I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose  she's  going  to  the 
wistaria  arbor,"  he  said,  mournfully,  walking  towards 
his  door. 

But  all  the  way  down  in  the  elevator  and  out  on  the 
street  he  was  comforting  himself  with  stories  of  strange 
coincidences;  of  how,  sometimes,  walking  alone  and 
'thinking  of  a  person  he  had  not  seen  or  thought  of  for 
years,  raising  his  eyes  he  had  met  that  person  face  to 
face.  And  a  presentiment  that  he  should  meet  his 
neighbor  under  the  wistaria  arbor  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  until,  as  he  turned  into  the  broad,  southeastern 
entrance  to  the  Park,  his  heart  began  beating  an  un 
easy,  expectant  tattoo  under  his  starched  white  waist 
coat. 

"I've  been  smoking  too  many  cigarettes,"  he  mut 
tered.  "Things  like  that  don't  happen.  It  would  be 
too  silly — " 

And  it  was  rather  silly;  but  she  was  there.  He  saw 
her  the  moment  he  entered  the  wistaria  arbor,  seated 
in  a  rustic  recess.  It  may  be  that  she  was  reading  the 
book  she  held  so  unsteadily  in  her  small,  gloved  fingers, 
but  the  book  was  upside  down.  And  when  his  footstep 
echoed  on  the  asphalt,  she  raised  a  pair  of  thoroughly 
frightened  eyes. 

His  expression  verged  on  the  idiotic;  they  were  a 

250 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

scared  pair,  and  it  was  only  when  the  bright  flush  of  guilt 
flooded  her  face  that  he  recovered  his  senses  in  a  meas 
ure  and  took  off  his  hat. 

.'  "I — I  hadn't  the  slightest  notion  that  you  would 
come,"  he  stammered.  "This  is  the — the  most  amaz 
ing  example  of  telepathy  I  ever  heard  of!" 

"Telepathy?"  she  repeated,  faintly. 

"Telepathy!  Thought  persuasion!  It's  incredible! 
It's — it's  a — it  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  do.  I  don't 
know  what  to  say." 

"Is  it  necessary  for  you  to  say  anything  to — me?" 

"Can  you  ever  pardon  me?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Are 
you  asking  pardon  for  your  rudeness  in  speaking  to 
me?" 

"No,"  he  almost  groaned;  "I'll  do  that  later.  There 
is  something  much  worse — " 

Her  cool  self-possession  unnerved  him.  Composure 
is  sometimes  the  culmination  of  fright;  but  he  did  not 
know  that,  because  he  did  not  know  the  subtler  sex. 
His  fluency  left  him;  all  he  could  repeat  was,  "  I'm  sorry 
I'm  speaking  to  you  —  but  there's  something  much 
worse." 

"I  cannot  imagine  anything  worse,"  she  said. 

"Won't  you  grant  me  a  moment  to  explain?"  he 
urged. 

"How  can  I?"  she  replied,  calmly.  "How  can  a 
woman  permit  a  man  to  speak  without  shadow  of  ex 
cuse?  You  know  perfectly  well  what  convention  re 
quires." 

Hot,  uncomfortable,  he  looked  at  her  so  appealingly 
that  her  eyes  softened  a  little. 

251 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  mean  to  be  impertinent  to  me," 
she  said,  coldly. 

He  said  that  he  didn't  with  so  much  fervor  that  some 
thing  perilously  close  to  a  smile  touched  her  lips.  He 
told  her  who  he  was,  and  the  information  appeared  to 
surprise  her,  so  it  is  safe  to  assume  she  knew  ii:  already. 
He  pleaded  in  extenuation  that  they  had  been  neigh 
bors  for  a  year;  but  she  had  not,  apparently,  been  aware 
of  this  either;  and  the  snub  completed  his  discomfiture. 

"I — I  was  so  anxious  to  know  you,"  he  said,  miser 
ably.  "That  was  the  beginning — " 

"It  is  a  perfectly  horrid  thing  to  say,"  she  said,  in 
dignantly.  "Do  you  suppose,  because  you  are  a  public 
character,  you  are  privileged  to  speak  to  anybody?" 

He  attempted  to  say  he  didn't,  but  she  went  on:  "Of 
course  that  is  not  a  palliation  of  your  offence.  It  is  a 
dreadful  condition  of  affairs  if  a  woman  cannot  go  out 
alone — " 

"Please  don't  say  that!"  he  cried. 

"I  must.  It  is  a  terrible  comment  on  modern  social 
conditions,"  she  repeated,  shaking  her  pretty  head. 
"A  woman  who  permits  it  —  especially  a  woman  who 
is  obliged  to  support  herself — for  if  I  were  not  poor  I 
should  be  driving  here  in  my  brougham,  and  you  know 
it! — oh,  it  is  a  hideously  common  thing  for  a  girl  to  do!" 
Opening  her  book,  she  appeared  to  be  deeply  interested 
in  it.  But  the  book  was  upside  down. 

Glancing  at  him  a  moment  later,  she  was  apparently 
surprised  to  find  him  still  standing  beside  her.  How 
ever,  he  had  noted  two  things  in  that  moment  of  respite: 
she  held  the  book  upside  down,  and  on  the  title-page 
was  written  a  signature  that  he  knew — "Marlitt." 

252 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

"Under  the  circumstances,"  she  said,  coldly,  "do  you 
think  it  decent  to  continue  this  conversation?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  decent  sort  of  fellow, 
or  you  would  have  divined  the  contrary  long  ago;  and 
there  is  a  humiliating  explanation  that  I  owe  you." 

"You  owe  me  every  explanation,"  she  said,  "but  I 
am  generous  enough  to  spare  you  the  humiliation." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  admitted.  "I  hyp 
notized  you  into  coming  here,  and  you  are  aware  of  it." 

Pink  to  the  ears  with  resentment  and  confusion,  she 
sat  up  very  straight  and  stared  at  him.  From  a  pretty 
girl  defiant,  she  became  an  angry  beauty.  And  he 
quailed. 

"Did  you  imagine  that  you  hypnotized  me?"  she 
asked,  incredulously. 

"  What  was  it,  then  ?"  he  muttered.  "  You  did  every 
thing  I  wished  for — " 

"What  did  you  wish  for?" 

"I — I  thought  you  needed  the  sun,  and  as  soon  as  I 
said  that  you  ought  to  go  out,  you — you  put  on  that 
big,  black  hat.  And  then  I  wished  I  knew  you — I 
wished  you  would  come  here  to  the  wistaria  arbor,  and 
—you  came." 

"In  other  words,"  she  said,  disdainfully,  "you  delib 
erately  planned  to  control  my  mind  and  induce  me  to 
meet  you  in  a  clandestine  and  horrid  manner." 

"I  never  looked  at  it  in  that  way.  I  only  knew  I 
admired  you  a  lot,  and — and  you  were  tremendously 
charming — more  so  than  my  sketch — " 

"What  sketch?" 

"I — you  see,  I  made  a  little  sketch,"  he  admitted — 
"a  little  picture  of  you — " 

253 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Her  silence  scared  him. 

"Do  you  mind?"  he  ventured. 

"  Of  course  you  will  send  that  portrait  to  me  at  once!" 
she  said. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  I  will;  I  had  meant  to  send  it  any 
way — " 

"That,"  she  observed,  "would  have  been  the  very 
height  of  impertinence." 

Opening  her  book  again,  she  indulged  him  with  a 
view  of  the  most  exquisite  profile  he  had  ever  dreamed 
of. 

She  despised  him ;  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  He  despised  himself;  his  offence,  stripped  by 
her  of  all  extenuation,  appeared  to  him  in  its  own  naked 
hideousness ;  and  it  appalled  him. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "there's  nothing  crim 
inal  in  me.  I  never  imagined  that  a  man  could  appear 
to  such  disadvantage  as  I  appear.  I'll  go.  There's 
no  use  in  hoping  for  pardon.  I'll  go." 

Studying  her  book,  she  said,  without  raising  her  eyes, 
"I  am  offended — deeply  hurt — but — " 

He  waited  anxiously. 

"But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  not  as  deeply  of 
fended  as  I  ought  to  be." 

"That  is  very,  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  warmly. 

"It  is  very  depraved  of  me,"  she  retorted,  turning  a 
page. 

After  a  silence,  he  said,  "Then  I  suppose  I  must  go." 

It  is  possible  she  did  not  hear  him;  she  seemed  en 
grossed,  bending  a  little  closer  over  the  book  on  her 
knee,  for  the  shadows  of  blossom  ancj  foliage  above  had 
crept  across  the  printed  page. 

254 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

All  the  silence  was  in  tremulous  vibration  with  the 
hum  of  bees;  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  grew  sweeter 
as  the  sun  sank  towards  the  west,  flinging  long,  blue 
shadows  over  the  grass  and  asphalt. 

A  gray  squirrel  came  hopping  along,  tail  twitching, 
and  deliberately  climbed  up  the  seat  where  she  was 
sitting,  squatting  beside  her,  paws  -drooping  in  dumb 
appeal. 

"You  dear  little  thing!"  said  the  girl,  impulsively. 
"I  wish  I  had  a  bonbon  for  you!  Have  you  anything 
in  the  world  to  give  this  half -starved  squirrel,  Mr.  Ten- 
nant?" 

"Nothing  but  a  cigarette,"  muttered  Tennant.  "I'll 
go  out  to  the  gate  if  you — "  He  hesitated.  "They 
generally  sell  peanuts  out  there,"  he  added,  vaguely. 

"Squirrels  adore  peanuts,"  she  murmured,  caressing 
the  squirrel,  who  had  begun  fearlessly  snooping  into  her 
lap. 

Tennant,  enchanted  at  the  tacit  commission,  started 
off  at  a  pace  that  brought  him  to  the  gate  and  back 
again  before  he  could  arrange  his  own  disordered 
thoughts. 

She  was  reading  when  he  returned,  and  she  cooled 
his  enthusiasm  with  a  stare  of  surprise. 

"The  squirrel?  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where 
that  squirrel  has  gone.  Did  you  really  go  all  the  way 
to  the  gate  for  peanuts  to  stuff  that  overfed  squirrel?" 

He  looked  at  the  four  paper  bags,  opened  one  of 
them,  and  stirred  the  nuts  with  his  hand. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  them?"  he  asked. 

Then,  and  neither  ever  knew  exactly  why,  she  began 
to  laugh.  The  first  laugh  was  brief;  an  oppressive  si- 

255 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

lence  followed — then  she  laughed  again ;  and  as  he  grew 
redder  and  redder,  she  laughed  the  most  deliciously 
fresh  peal  of  laughter  he  had  ever  heard. 

"This  is  dreadful!"  she  said.  "I  should  never  have 
come  alone  to  the  Park!  You  should  never  have  dared 
to  speak  to  me.  All  we  need  to  do  now  is  to  eat  those 
peanuts,  and  you  have  all  the  material  for  a  picture  of 
courtship  below-stairs !  Oh,  dear,  and  the  worst  part 
of  it  all  is  that  I  laugh!" 

,  "If  you'd  let  me  sit  down,"  he  said,  "I'd  complete 
the  picture  and  eat  peanuts." 

"You  dare  not!" 

He  seated  himself,  opened  a  paper  bag,  and  delib 
erately  cracked  and  ate  a  nut. 

"Horrors!  and  disillusion!  The  idol  of  the  public 
— munching  peanuts!" 

"You  ought  to  try  one,"  he  said. 

She  stood  it  for  a  while;  but  the  saving  grace  of  hu 
mor  warned  her  of  her  peril,  and  she  ate  a  peanut. 

"To  save  my  face,"  she  explained.  "But  I  didn't 
suppose  you  were  capable  of  it." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  tranquilly,  "  a  man  can 
do  anything  in  this  world  if  he  only  does  it  thoroughly 
and  appears  to  enjoy  himself.  I've  seen  the  Prince 
Regent  of  Boznovia  sitting  at  the  window  of  the  Crown 
Regiment  barracks  arrayed  in  his  shirt -sleeves  and  ab 
sorbing  beer  and  pretzels." 

"  But  he  was  the  Prince  Regent!" 

"And  I'm  Tennant." 

"According  to  that  philosophy  you  are  at  liberty  to 
eat  fish  with  your  knife." 

"But  I  don't  want  to." 

256 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

"  But  suppose  you  did  want  to?" 

"That  is  neither  philosophy  nor  logic,"  he  insisted; 
"that  is  speculation.  May  I  offer  you  a  stick  of  old- 
fashioned  circus  candy  flavored  with  wintergreen  ?" 

"You  may,"  she  said,  accepting  it.  "If  there  is  any 
lower  depth  I  may  attain,  I'm  sure  you  will  suggest  it." 

"I'll  try,"  he  said.  Their  eyes  met  for  an  instant; 
then  hers  were  lowered. 

Squirrels  came  in  troops ;  she  fed  the  little,  fat  scamps 
to  repletion,  and  the  green  lawn  was  dotted  with  squir 
rels  all  busily  burying  peanuts  for  future  consumption. 
A  brilliant  peacock  appeared,  picking  his  way  towards 
them,  followed  by  a  covey  of  imbecile  peafowl.  She 
fed  them  until  their  crops  protruded. 

The  sun  glittered  on  the  upper  windows  of  the  clubs 
and  hotels  along  Fifth  Avenue;  the  west  turned  gold, 
then  pink.  Clouds  of  tiny  moths  came  hovering  among 
the  wistaria  blossoms;  and  high  in  the  sky  the  metallic 
note  of  a  nighthawk  rang,  repeating  in  querulous  ca 
dence  the  cries  of  water-fowl  on  the  lake,  where  mallard 
and  widgeon  were  restlessly  preparing  for  an  evening 
flight. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  gravely,  "a  woman  who  over 
steps  convention  always  suffers;  a  man,  never.  I  have 
done  something  I  never  expected  to  do — never  sup 
posed  was  in  me  to  do.  And  now  that  I  have  gone  so 
far,  it  is  perhaps  better  for  me  to  go  farther."  She 
looked  at  him  steadily.  "Your  studio  is  a  perfect 
sounding-board.  You  have  an  astonishingly  frank 
habit  of  talking  to  yourself;  and  every  word  is  perfectly 
audible  to  me  when  my  window  is  raised.  When  you 
chose  to  apostrophize  me  as  a  'white-faced,  dark-eyed 
17  257 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

little  thing,'  and  when  you  remarked  to  yourself  that 
there  were  'thousands  like  me  in  New  York,'  I  was  per 
fectly  indignant." 

He  sat  staring  at  her,  utterly  incapable  of  uttering  a 
sound. 

"It  costs  a  great  deal  for  me  to  say  this,"  she  went 
on.  "But  I  am  obliged  to  because  it  is  not  fair  to  let 
you  go  on  communing  aloud  with  yourself — and  I  can 
not  close  my  window  in  warm  weather.  It  costs  more 
than  you  know  for  me  to  say  this;  for  it  is  an  admission 
that  I  heard  you  say  that  you  were  coming  to  the  wis 
taria  arbor — 

She  bent  her  crimsoned  face;  the  silence  of  evening 
fell  over  the  arbor. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came,"  she  said  —  "whether 
with  a  vague  idea  of  giving  you  the  chance  to  speak, 
and  so  seizing  the  opportunity  to  warn  you  that  your 
soliloquies  were  audible  to  me — whether  to  tempt  you 
to  speak  and  make  it  plain  to  you  that  I  am  not  one  of 
the  thousand  shop-girls  you  have  observed  after  the 
shops  close — 

"Don't,"  he  said,  hoarsely.     " I'm  miserable  enough." 

"I  don't  wish  you  to  feel  miserable,"  she  said.  "I 
have  a  very  exalted  idea  of  you.  I — I  understand 
artists." 

"They're  fools,"  he  said.  "Say  anything  you  like 
before  I  go.  I  had — hoped  for — perhaps  for  your 
friendship.  But  a  woman  can't  respect  a  fool." 

He  rose  in  his  humiliation. 

"I  can  ask  no  privileges,"  he  said,  "but  I  must  say 
one  thing  before  I  go.  You  have  a  book  there  which 
bears  the  signature  of  an  artist  named  Marlitt.  I  am 

258 


MARLITT'S    SHOES 

very  anxious  for  his  address;  I  think  I  have  important 
news  for  him — good  news.  That  is  why  I  ask  it." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  quietly. 

"What  news  have  you  for  him?" 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  right  to  ask,"  he  said,  "or 
you  would  not  ask.  I  do  not  know  Marlitt.  I  liked 
his  work.  Mr.  Calvert  suggested  that  Marlitt  should 
return  to  resume  work — " 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "you  suggested  it." 

He  was  staggered.  "Did  you  even  hear  that!"  he 
gasped. 

"You  were  standing  by  your  window,"  she  said. 
"Mr.  Tennant,  I  think  that  was  the  real  reason  why  I 
came  to  the  wistaria  arbor — to  thank  you  for  what 
you  have  done.  You  see — you  see,  I  am  Marlitt." 

He  sank  down  on  the  seat  opposite. 

"Everything  has  gone  wrong,"  she  said.  "I  came 
to  thank  you — and  everything  turned  out  so  differently 
— and  I  was  dreadfully  rude  to  you — 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Then  you  wrote  me  that  letter,"  he  said,  slowly. 
In  the  silence  of  the  gathering  dusk  the  electric  lamps 
snapped  alight,  flooding  the  arbor  with  silvery  radiance. 
He  said: 

"If  a  man  had  written  me  that  letter  I  should  have 
desired  his  friendship  and  offered  mine." 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him.  "Thank 
you  for  speaking  to  Calvert,"  she  said,  rising  hastily; 
"I  have  been  desperately  in  need  of  work.  My  pride 
is  quite  dead,  you  see — one  or  the  other  of  us  had  to 
die." 

She  looked  down  with  a  gay  little  smile.  "If  it 

259 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

wouldn't  spoil  you  I  should  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you.  Meanwhile,  as  servitude  becomes  man,  you  may 
tie  my  shoe  for  me — Marlitt's  shoe  that  pinched  you. 
.  .  .  Tie  it  tightly,  so  that  I  shall  not  lose  it  again.  .  .  . 
Thank  you." 

As  he  rose,  their  eyes  met  once  more;  and  the  perilous 
sweetness  in  hers  fascinated  him. 

She  drew  a  deep,  unsteady  breath.  "Will  you  take 
me  home?"  she  asked. 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 


THE  steady  flicker  of  lightning  in  the  southwest 
continued;  the  wind  freshened,  blowing  in  cooler 
streaks  across  acres  of  rattling  rushes  and  dead  marsh- 
grass.  A  dull  light  grew  through  the  scudding  clouds, 
then  faded  as  the  mid-day  sun  went  out  in  the  smother, 
leaving  an  ominous  red  smear  overhead. 

Gun  in  hand,  Haltren  stood  up  among  the  reeds  and 
inspected  the  landscape.  Already  the  fish-crows  and 
egrets  were  flying  inland,  the  pelicans  had  left  the  sand 
bar,  the  eagles  were  gone  from  beach  and  dune.  High 
in  the  thickening  sky  wild  ducks  passed  over  Flyover 
Point  and  dropped  into  the  sheltered  marshes  among 
the  cypress. 

As  Haltren  stood  undecided,  watching  the  ruddy  play 
of  lightning,  which  came  no  nearer  than  the  horizon,  a 
squall  struck  the  lagoon.  Then,  amid  the  immense 
solitude  of  marsh  and  water,  a  deep  sound  grew — the 
roar  of  the  wind  in  the  wilderness.  The  solemn  paeon 
swelled  and  died  away  as  thunder  dies,  leaving  the  air 
tremulous. 

"I'd  better  get  out  of  this,"  said  Haltren  to  himself. 
He  felt  for  the  breech  of  his  gun,  unloaded  both  barrels, 
and  slowly  pocketed  the  cartridges. 

263 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Eastward,  between'the  vast  salt  river  and  the  ocean, 
the  dunes  were  smoking  like  wind-lashed  breakers;  a 
heron,  laboring  heavily,  flapped  inland,  broad  pinions 
buffeting  the  gale. 

"Something's  due  to  happen,"  said  Haltren,  reflect 
ively,  closing  the  breech  of  his  gun.  He  had  hauled  his 
boat  up  an  alligator-slide ;  now  he  shoved  it  off  the  same 
way,  and  pulling  up  his  hip-boots,  waded  out,  laid  his 
gun  in  the  stern,  threw  cartridge-sack  and  a  dozen  dead 
ducks  after  it,  and  embarked  among  the  raft  of  wind- 
tossed  wooden  decoys. 

There  were  twoscore  decoys  bobbing  and  tugging  at 
their  anchor-cords  outside  the  point.  Before  he  had 
fished  up  a  dozen  on  the  blade  of  his  oar  a  heavier  squall 
struck  the  lagoon,  blowing  the  boat  out  into  the  river. 
He  had  managed  to  paddle  back  and  had  secured  an 
other  brace  of  decoys,  when  a  violent  gale  caught  him 
broadside,  almost  capsizing  him. 

"If  I  don't  get  those  decoys  now  I  never  shall!"  he 
muttered,  doggedly  jabbing  about  with  extended  oar. 
But  he  never  got  them;  for  at  that  moment  a  tropical 
hurricane,  still  in  its  infancy,  began  to  develop,  and 
when,  blinded  with  spray,  he  managed  to  jam  the  oars 
into  the  oar-locks,  his  boat  was  half  a  mile  out  and  still 
driving. 

For  a  week  the  wind  had  piled  the  lagoons  and  lakes 
south  of  the  Matanzas  full  of  water,  and  now  the 
waves  sprang  up,  bursting  into  menacing  shapes, 
knocking  the  boat  about  viciously.  Haltren  turned 
his  unquiet  eyes  towards  a  streak  of  green  water 
ahead. 

"  I  don't  suppose  this  catspaw  is  really  trying  to  drive 

264 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

me  out  of  Coquina  Inlet!"  he  said,  peevishly;  "I  don't 
suppose  I'm  being  blown  out  to  sea." 

It  was  a  stormy  end  for  a  day's  pleasure — yet  curi 
ously  appropriate,  too,  for  it  was  the  fourth  anniver 
sary  of  his  wedding-day;  and  the  storm  that  followed 
had  blown  him  out  into  the  waste  corners  of  the 
world. 

Perhaps  something  of  this  idea  came  into  his  head; 
he  laughed  a  disagreeable  laugh  and  fell  to  rowing. 

The  red  lightning  still  darted  along  the  southern 
horizon,  no  nearer;  the  wilderness  of  water,  of  palm 
forests,  of  jungle,  of  dune,  was  bathed  in  a  sickly  light; 
overhead  oceans  of  clouds  tore  through  a  sombre  sky. 

After  a  while  he  understood  that  he  was  making  no 
headway;  then  he  saw  that  the  storm  was  shaping  his 
course.  He  dug  his  oars  into  the  thick,  gray  waves; 
the  wind  tore  the  cap  from  his  head,  caught  the  boat 
and  wrestled  with  it. 

Somehow  or  other  he  must  get  the  boat  ashore  before 
he  came  abreast  of  the  inlet ;  otherwise — 

He  turned  his  head  and  stared  at  the  whitecaps  tum 
bling  along  the  deadly  raceway;  and  he  almost  dropped 
his  oars  in  astonishment  to  see  a  gasoline-launch  bat 
tling  for  safety  just  north  of  the  storm-swept  channel. 
What  was  a  launch  doing  in  this  forsaken  end  of  the 
earth?  And  the  next  instant  developed  the  answer. 
Out  at  sea,  beyond  the  outer  bar,  a  yacht,  wallowing 
like  a  white  whale,  was  staggering  towards  the  open 
ocean. 

He  saw  all  this  in  a  flash — saw  the  gray-green  mael 
strom  between  the  dunes,  the  launch  struggling  across 
the  inlet,  the  yacht  plunging  seaward.  Then  in  the 

265 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

endless  palm  forests  the  roar  deepened.  Flash!  Bang! 
lightning  and  thunder  were  simultaneous. 

"That's  better,"  said  Haltren,  hanging  to  his  oars; 
"there's  a  fighting  chance  now." 

The  rain  came,  beating  the  waves  down,  seemingly, 
for  a  moment,  beating  out  the  wind  itself.  In  the  par 
tial  silence  the  sharp  explosions  of  the  gasoline-engine 
echoed  like  volleys  of  pistol-shots;  and  Haltren  half 
rose  in  his  pitching  boat,  and  shouted:  "Launch  ahoy! 
Run  under  the  lee  shore.  There's  a  hurricane  coming! 
You  haven't  a  second  to  lose!" 

He  heard  somebody  aboard  the  launch  say,  distinct 
ly,  "There's  a  Florida  cracker  alongside  who  says  a 
hurricane  is  about  due."  The  shrill  roar  of  the  rain 
drowned  the  voice.  Haltren  bent  to  his  oars  again. 
Then  a  young  man  in  dripping  white  flannels  looked 
out  of  the  wheel-house  and  hailed  him.  "We've  ground 
ed  on  the  meadows  twice.  If  you  know  the  channel 
you'd  better  come  aboard  and  take  the  wheel." 

Haltren,  already  north  of  the  inlet  and  within  the 
zone  of  safety,  rested  on  his  oars  a  second  and  looked 
back,  listening.  Very  far  away  he  heard  the  deep 
whisper  of  death. 

On  board  the  launch  the  young  man  at  the  wheel 
heard  it,  too;  and  he  hailed  Haltren  in  a  shaky  voice: 
"I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  come  back,  but  there  are  wom 
en  aboard.  Can't  you  help  us?" 

"All  right,"  said  Haltren. 

A  horrible  white  glare  broke  out  through  the  haze; 
the  solid  vertical  torrent  of  rain  swayed,  then  slanted 
eastward. 

A  wave  threw  him  alongside  the  launch;  he  scram- 

266 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

bled  over  the  low  rail  and  ran  forward,  deafened  by  the 
din.  A  woman  in  oilskins  hung  to  the  companion-rail; 
he  saw  her  white  face  as  he  passed.  Haggard,  stagger 
ing,  he  entered  the  wheel-house,  where  the  young  man 
in  dripping  flannels  seized  his  arm,  calling  him  by  name. 
Haltren  pushed  him  aside. 

"Give  me  that  wheel,  Darrow,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"Ring  full  speed  ahead!  Now  stand  clear — " 

Like  an  explosion  the  white  tornado  burst,  burying 
deck  and  wheel-house  in  foam;  a  bellowing  fury  of 
tumbling  waters  enveloped  the  launch.  Haltren  hung 
to  the  wheel  one  second,  two,  five,  ten;  and  at  last 
through  the  howling  chaos  his  stunned  ears  caught  the 
faint  staccato  spat!  puff!  spat!  of  the  exhaust.  Thirty 
seconds  more — if  the  engines  could  stand  it — if  they 
only  could  stand  it! 

They  stood  it  for  thirty-three  seconds  and  went  to 
smash.  A  terrific  squall,  partly  deflected  from  the 
forest,  hurled  the  launch  into  the  swamp,  now  all  boil 
ing  in  shallow  foam;  and  there  she  stuck  in  the  good, 
thick  mud,  heeled  over  and  all  awash  like  a  stranded 
razor-back  after  a  freshet. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  sun  came  out;  the  waters 
of  the  lagoon  turned  sky  blue;  a  delicate  breeze  from 
the  southeast  stirred  the  palmetto  fronds. 

Presently  a  cardinal  -  bird  began  singing  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Haltren,  standing  in  the  wrecked  wheel-house,  raised 
his  dazed  eyes  as  Darrow  entered  and  looked  around. 

" So  that  was  a  white  tornado!  I've  heard  of  them — 
but — good  God!"  He  turned  a  bloodless  visage  to 

267 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

Haltren,  who,  dripping,  bareheaded  and  silent,  stood 
with  eyes  closed  leaning  heavily  against  the  wheel. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

Haltren  shook  his  head.  Darrow  regarded  him 
stupidly. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  in  this  part  of  the  world  ?" 

Haltren  opened  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  I'm  likely  to  be  any 
where,"  he  said,  vaguely,  passing  a  shaking  hand  across 
his  face.  There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  he  said: 

"Darrow,  is  my  wife  aboard  this  boat?" 

"Yes,"  said  Darrow,  under  his  breath.  "Isn't  that 
the  limit?" 

Through  the  silence  the  cardinal  sang  steadily. 

"  Isn't  that  the  limit  ?"  repeated  Darrow.  "  We  came 
on  the  yacht — that  was  Brent's  yacht,  the  Dione,  you 
saw  at  sea.  You  know  the  people  aboard.  Brent, 
Mrs.  Castle,  your  wife,  and  I  left  the  others  and  took 
the  launch  to  explore  the  lagoons.  .  .  .  And  here  we  are. 
Isn't  it  funny?"  he  added,  with  a  nerveless  laugh. 

Haltren  stood  there  slowly  passing  his  hand  over  his 
face. 

"It  is  funnier  than  you  know,  Darrow,"  he  said. 
"Kathleen  and  I — this  is  our  wedding-day." 

"Well,  that  is  the  limit,"  muttered  Darrow,  as  Hal 
tren  turned  a  stunned  face  to  the  sunshine  where  the 
little  cardinal  sang  with  might  and  main. 

"Come  below,"  he  added.  "You  are  going  to  speak 
to  her,  of  course?" 

"If  she  cared  to  have  me — " 

"Speak  to  her  anyway.  Haltren;  I" — he  hesitated 
— "I  never  knew  why  you  and  Kathleen  separated.  I 
only  knew  what  everybody  knows.  You  and  she  are 

268 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

four  years  older  now;  and  if  there's  a  ghost  of  a  chance — 
Do  you  understand?" 

Haltren  nodded. 

"Then  we'll  go  below,"  began  Darrow.  But  Major 
Brent  appeared  at  that  moment,  apoplectic  eyes  pop 
ping  from  his  purple  face  as  he  waddled  forward  to  sur 
vey  the  dismantled  launch. 

Without  noticing  either  Haltren  or  Darrow,  he  tested 
the  slippery  angle  of  the  deck,  almost  slid  off  into  the 
lagoon,  clutched  the  rail  with  both  pudgy  hands,  and 
glared  at  the  water. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  peevishly,  "that  there  are  alli 
gators  in  that  water.  I  know  there  are!" 

He  turned  his  inflamed  eyes  on  Haltren,  but  made  no 
sign  of  recognition. 

"Major,"  said  Darrow,  sharply,  "you  remember 
Dick  Haltren—" 

"Eh?"  snapped  the  major.  "Where  the  deuce  did 
you  come  from,  Haltren  ?" 

"He  was  the  man  who  hailed  us.  He  took  the  wheel," 
said  Darrow,  meaningly. 

"Nice  mess  you  made  of  it  between  you,"  retorted 
the  major,  scowling  his  acknowledgments  at  Haltren. 

Darrow,  disgusted,  turned  on  his  heel;  Haltren  laugh 
ed.  The  sound  of  his  own  laugh  amused  him,  and  he 
laughed  again. 

"I  don't  see  the  humor,"  said  the  major.  "The 
Dione  is  blown  half-way  to  the  Bermudas  by  this 
time."  He  added,  with  a  tragic  gesture  of  his  fat 
arms;  "Are  you  aware  that  Mrs.  Jack  Onderdonk  is 
aboard?" 

The  possible  fate  of  Manhattan's  queen  regent  so 

269 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

horrified  Major  Brent  that  his  congested  features  as 
sumed  the  expression  of  an  alarmed  tadpole. 

But  Haltren,  the  unaccustomed  taste  of  mirth  in  his 
throat  once  more,  stood  there,  dripping,  dishevelled, 
and  laughing.  For  four  years  he  had  missed  the  life 
he  had  been  bred  to ;  he  had  missed  even  what  he  despised 
in  it,  and  his  life  at  moments  had  become  a  hell  of 
isolation.  Time  dulled  the  edges  of  his  loneliness;  soli 
tude,  if  it  hurts,  sometimes  cures  too.  But  he  was  not 
yet  cured  of  longing  for  that  self-forbidden  city  in  the 
North.  He  desired  it — he  desired  the  arid  wilderness 
of  its  treeless  streets,  its  incessant  sounds,  its  restless 
energy;  he  desired  its  pleasures,  its  frivolous  days  and 
nights,  its  satiated  security,  its  ennui.  Its  life  had 
been  his  life,  its  people  his  people,  and  he  longed  for  it 
with  a  desire  that  racked  him. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  laughing  at,  Haltren?" 
asked  the  major,  tartly. 

"Was  I  laughing?"  said  the  young  man.  "Well — 
now  I  will  say  good-bye,  Major  Brent.  Your  yacht  will 
steam  in  before  night  and  send  a  boat  for  you;  and  I 
shall  have  my  lagoons  to  myself  again.  ...  I  have  been 
here  a  long  time.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  laughed  just 
now.  There  was,  indeed,  no  reason."  He  turned  and 
looked  at  the  cabin  skylights.  "  It's  hard  to  realize  that 
you  and  Darrow  and — others — are  here,  and  that  there's 
a  whole  yacht-load  of  fellow-creatures — and  Mrs.  Van 
Onderdonk  —  wobbling  about  the  Atlantic  near  by. 
Fashionable  people  have  never  before  come  here — even 
intelligent  people  rarely  penetrate  this  wilderness.  ...  I 
— I  have  a  plantation  a  few  miles  below — oranges  and 
things,  you  know."  He  hesitated,  almost  wistfully. 

270 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

"I  don't  suppose  you  and  your  guests  would  care  to 
stop  there  for  a  few  hours,  if  your  yacht  is  late." 

"No,"  said  the  major,  "we  don't  care  to." 

"Perhaps  Haltren  will  stay  aboard  the  wreck  with 
us  until  the  Dione  comes  in,"  suggested  Darrow. 

"I  dare  say  you  have  a  camp  hereabouts,"  said  the 
major,  staring  at  Haltren;  "no  doubt  you'd  be  more 
comfortable  there." 

"Thanks,"  said  Haltren,  pleasantly;  "I  have  my 
camp  a  mile  below."  He  offered  his  hand  to  Darrow, 
who,  too  angry  to  speak,  nodded  violently  towards  the 
cabin . 

"How  can  I?"  asked  Haltren.  "Good-bye.  And  I'll 
say  good-bye  to  you,  major — " 

"Good-bye,"  muttered  the  major,  attempting  to  clasp 
his  fat  little  hands  behind  his  back. 

Haltren,  who  had  no  idea  of  offering  his  hand,  stood 
still  a  moment,  glancing  at  the  cabin  skylights;  then, 
with  a  final  nod  to  Darrow,  he  deliberately  slid  over 
board  and  waded  away,  knee-deep,  towards  the  palm- 
fringed  shore. 

Darrow  could  not  contain  himself.  "Major  Brent," 
he  said,  "  I  suppose  you  don't  realize  that  Haltren  saved 
the  lives  of  every  soul  aboard  this  launch." 

The  major's  inflamed  eyes  popped  out. 

"Eh?     What's  that?" 

"More  than  that,"  said  Darrow,  "he  came  back  from 
safety  to  risk  his  life.  As  it  was  he  lost  his  boat  and  his 
gun—" 

"Damnation!"  broke  out  the  major;  "you  don't  ex 
pect  me  to  ask  him  to  stay  and  meet  the  wife  he  deserted 
four  years  ago!" 

271 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

And  he  waddled  off  to  the  engine-room,  where  the 
engineer  and  his  assistant  were  tinkering  at  the  wrecked 
engine. 

Darrow  went  down  into  the  sloppy  cabin,  where,  on 
a  couch,  Mrs.  Castle  lay,  ill  from  the  shock  of  the  recent 
catastrophe;  and  beside  her  stood  an  attractive  girl 
stirring  sweet  spirits  of  ammonia  in  a  tumbler. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  open  port -hole.  Through 
that  port -hole  the  lagoon  was  visible;  so  was  Haltren, 
wading  shoreward,  a  solitary  figure  against  the  fringed 
rampart  of  the  wilderness. 

"Is  Mrs.  Castle  better?"  asked  Darrow. 

"  I  think  so ;  I  think  she  is  asleep,"  said  the  girl,  calmly. 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Darrow  took  the  tumbler 
and  stirred  the  contents. 

"Do  you  know  who  it  was  that  got  us  out  of  that 
pickle?" 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "my  husband." 

"I  suppose  you  could  hear  what  we  said  on  deck." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Could  you,  Kathleen?" 

"Yes." 

Darrow  stared  into  the  tumbler,  tasted  the  medicine, 
and  frowned. 

"Isn't  there  —  isn't  there  a  chance  —  a  ghost  of  a 
chance?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  not,"  she  answered — "I  am  sure  not.  I 
shall  never  see  him  again." 

"I  meant  for  myself,"  said  Darrow,  deliberately,  look 
ing  her  full  in  the  face.- 

She  crimsoned  to  her  temples,  then  her  eyes  flashed 
violet  fire. 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

"Not  the  slightest,"  she  said. 

"Thanks,"  said  Darrow,  flippantly;  "I  only  wanted 
to  know." 

"You  know  now,  don't  you?"  she  asked,  a  trifle  ex 
cited,  yet  realizing  instinctively  that  somehow  she  had 
been  tricked.  And  yet,  until  that  moment,  she  had 
believed  Darrow  to  be  her  slave.  He  had  been  and  was 
still;  but  she  was  not  longer  certain,  and  her  uncer 
tainty  confused  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  any  human  feel 
ing  left  for  that  vagabond?"  demanded  Darrow.  So 
earnest  was  he  that  his  tanned  face  grew  tense  and 
white. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  she  said,  breathlessly,  "that  from 
this  moment  I  have  no  human  feeling  left  for  you! 
And  I  never  had !  I  know  it  now;  never!  never!  I  had 
rather  be  the  divorced  wife  of  Jack  Haltren  than  the 
wife  of  any  man  alive!" 

The  angry  beauty  of  her  young  face  was  his  reward ; 
he  turned  away  and  climbed  the  companion.  And  in 
the  shattered  wheel-house  he  faced  his  own  trouble, 
muttering:  "I've  done  my  best;  I've  tried  to  show  the 
pluck  he  showed.  He's  got  his  chance  now!"  And  he 
leaned  heavily  on  the  wheel,  covering  his  eyes  with  his 
hands;  for  he  was  fiercely  in  love,  and  he  had  destroyed 
for  a  friend's  sake  all  that  he  had  ever  hoped  for. 

But  there  was  more  to  be  done;  he  aroused  himself 
presently  and  wandered  around  to  the  engine-room, 
where  the  major  was  prowling  about,  fussing  and  fuming 
and  bullying  his  engineer. 

"Major,"  said  Darrow,  guilelessly,  "do  you  suppose 
Haltren's  appearance  has  upset  his  wife?" 
is  273 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Eh?"  said  the  major.  "No,  I  don't!  I  refuse  to  be 
lieve  that  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Haltren's  sense  and  personal 
dignity  could  be  upset  by  such  a  man!  By  gad!  sir,  if 
I  thought  it — for  one  instant,  sir — for  one  second — I'd 
reason  with  her.  I'd  presume  so  far  as  to  express  my 
personal  opinion  of  this  fellow  Haltren!" 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  speak  to  her,"  began  Darrow. 

"No,  sir!  Why  the  devil  should  you  assume  that 
liberty?"  demanded  Major  Brent.  "Allow  me,  sir;  al 
low  me!  Mrs.  Haltren  is  my  guest!" 

The  major's  long-latent  jealousy  of  Darrow  was  now 
fully  ablaze;  purple,  pop-eyed,  and  puffing,  he  toddled 
down  the  companion  on  his  errand  of  consolation. 
Darrow  watched  him  go.  "That  settles  him!"  he  said. 
Then  he  called  the  engineer  over  and  bade  him  rig  up 
and  launch  the  portable  canoe. 

"Put  one  paddle  in  it,  Johnson,  and  say  to  Mrs. 
Haltren  that  she  had  better  paddle  north,  because  a 
mile  below  there  is  a  camp  belonging  to  a  man  whom 
Major  Brent  and  I  do  not  wish  to  have  her  meet." 

The  grimy  engineer  hauled  out  the  packet  which, 
when  put  together,  was  warranted  to  become  a  full- 
fledged  canoe. 

"Lord!  how  she'll  hate  us  all,  even  poor  Johnson," 
murmured  Darrow.  "I  don't  know  much  about  Kath 
leen  Haltren,  but  if  she  doesn't  paddle  south  I'll  eat 
cotton -waste  with  oil-dressing  for  dinner!" 

At  that  moment  the  major  reappeared,  toddling  ex 
citedly  towards  the  stern. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  trouble?"  asked  Darrow. 
"Is  there  a  pizen  sarpint  aboard?" 

"Trouble!"  stammered  the  major.  "Who  said  there 

274 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

was  any  trouble?  Don't  be  an  ass,  sir!  Don't  even 
look  like  an  ass,  sir!  Damnation!" 

And  he  trotted  furiously  into  the  engine-room. 

Darrow  climbed  to  the  wheel-house  once  more,  fished 
out  a  pair  of  binoculars,  and  fixed  them  on  the  inlet  and 
the  strip  of  Atlantic  beyond. 

"If  the  Dione  isn't  in  by  three  o'clock,  Haltren  will 
have  his  chance,"  he  murmured. 

He  was  still  inspecting  the  ocean  and  his  watch  alter 
nately  when  Mrs.  Haltren  came  on  deck. 

"Did  you  send  me  the  canoe?"  she  asked,  with  cool 
unconcern. 

"It's  for  anybody,"  he  said,  morosely.  "Somebody 
ought  to  take  a  snap-shot  of  the  scene  of  our  disaster. 
If  you  don't  want  the  canoe,  I'll  take  it." 

She  had  her  camera  in  her  hand;  it  was  possible  he 
had  noticed  it,  although  he  appeared  to  be  very  busy 
with  his  binoculars. 

He  was  also  rude  enough  to  turn  his  back.  She  hesi 
tated,  looked  up  the  lagoon  and  down  the  lagoon.  She 
could  only  see  half  a  mile  south,  because  Flyover  Point 
blocked  the  view. 

"If  Mrs.  Castle  is  nervous  you  will  be  near  the  cabin  ?" 
she  asked,  coldly. 

"I'll  be  here,"  he  said. 

"And  you  may  say  to  Major  Brent,"  she  added,  "that 
he  need  not  send  me  further  orders  by  his  engineer,  and 
that  I  shall  paddle  wherever  caprice  invites  me." 

A  few  moments  later  a  portable  canoe  glided  out  from 
under  the  stern  of  the  launch.  In  it,  lazily  wielding  the 
polished  paddle,  sat  young  Mrs.  Haltren,  bareheaded, 
barearmed,  singing  as  sweetly  as  the  little  cardinal, 

275 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

who  paused  in  sheer  surprise  at  the  loveliness  of  song 
and  singer.  Like  a  homing  pigeon  the  canoe  circled  to 
take  its  bearings  once,  then  glided  away  due  south. 

Blue  was  the  sky  and  water;  her  eyes  were  bluer; 
white  as  the  sands  her  bare  arms  glimmered.  Was  it  a 
sunbeam  caught  entangled  in  her  burnished  hair,  or  a 
stray  strand,  that  burned  far  on  the  water. 

Darrow  dropped  his  eyes;  and  when  again  he  looked, 
the  canoe  had  vanished  behind  the  rushes  of  Flyover 
Point,  and  there  was  nothing  moving  on  the  water  far 
as  the  eye  could  see. 

About  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  the  pigeon-toed 
Seminole  Indian  who  followed  Haltren,  as  a  silent,  dan 
gerous  dog  follows  its  master,  laid  down  the  heavy  pink 
cedar  log  which  he  had  brought  to  the  fire,  and  stood 
perfectly  silent,  nose  up,  slitted  eyes  almost  closed. 

Haltren's  glance  was  a  question.  "Paddrum  boat," 
said  the  Indian,  sullenly. 

After  a  pause  Haltren  said,  "I  don't  hear  it,  Tiger." 

"Hunh!"  grunted  the  Seminole.  "Paddl'um  damn 
slow.  Bime-by  you  hear." 

And  bime-by  Haltren  heard. 

"Somebody  is  landing,"  he  said. 

The  Indian  folded  his  arms  and  stood  bolt  upright 
for  a  moment;  then,  "Hunh!"  he  muttered,  disgusted. 
"  Heap  squaw.  Tiger  will  go." 

Haltren  did  not  hear  him;  up  the  palmetto-choked 
trail  from  the  landing  strolled  a  girl,  paddle  poised  over 
one  shoulder,  bright  hair  blowing.  He  rose  to  his  feet ; 
she  saw  him  standing  in  the  haze  of  the  fire  and  made 
him  a  pretty  gesture  of  recognition. 

276 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

"I  thought  I'd  call  to  pay  my  respects,"  she  said. 
"How  do  you  do?  May  I  sit  on  this  soap-box?" 

Smiling,  she  laid  the  paddle  on  the  ground  and  held 
out  one  hand  as  he  stepped  forward. 

They  shook  hands  very  civilly. 

"That  was  a  brave  thing  you  did,"  she  said.  "Mes 
compliments,  monsieur." 

And  that  was  all  said  about  the  wreck. 

"  It's  not  unlike  an  Adirondack  camp,"  she  suggested, 
looking  around  at  the  open-faced,  palm-thatched  shanty 
with  its  usual  hangings  of  blankets  and  wet  clothing, 
and  its  smoky,  tin-pan  bric-a-brac. 

Her  blue  eyes  swept  all  in  rapid  review  —  the  guns 
leaning  against  the  tree;  the  bunch  of  dead  bluebill 
ducks  hanging  beyond ;  the  improvised  table  and  bench 
outside;  the  enormous  mottled  rattlesnake  skin  tacked 
lengthways  on  a  live-oak. 

"Are  there  many  of  those  about?"  she  inquired. 

"Very  few" — he  waited  to  control  the  voice  which 
did  not  sound  much  like  his  own — "very  few  rattlers 
yet.  They  come  out  later." 

"That's  amiable  of  them,"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  hope  you  are  well,"  he  ventured. 

"Perfectly — and  thank  you.  I  hope  you  are  well, 
Jack." 

"Thank  you,  Kathleen." 

She  picked  up  a  chip  of  rose-colored  cedar  and  snifled 
it  daintily. 

"Like  a  lead-pencil,  isn't  it?  Put  that  big  log  on 
the  fire.  The  odor  of  burning  cedar  must  be  delicious." 

277 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

He  lifted  the  great  log  and  laid  it  across  the  coals. 

"Suppose  we  lunch?"  she  proposed,  looking  straight 
at  the  simmering  coffee-pot. 

"Would  you  really  care  to?"  Then  he  raised  his 
voice:  "Tiger!  Tiger!  Where  the  dickens  are  you?" 
But  Tiger,  half  a  mile  away,  squatted  sulkily  on  the 
lagoon's  edge,  fishing,  and  muttering  to  himself  that 
there  were  too  many  white  people  in  the  forest  for  him. 

"He  won't  come,"  said  Haltren.  "You  know  the 
Seminoles  hate  the  whites,  and  consider  themselves  still 
unconquered.  There  is  scarcely  an  instance  on  record 
of  a  Seminole  attaching  himself  to  one  of  us." 

"But  your  tame  Tiger  appears  to  follow  you." 

"He's  an  exception." 

"Perhaps  you  are  an  exception,  too." 

He  looked  up  with  a  haggard  smile,  then  bent  over 
the  fire  and  poked  the  ashes  with  a  pointed  palmetto 
stem.  There  were  half  a  dozen  sweet-potatoes  there, 
and  a  baked  duck  and  an  ash-cake. 

"Goodness!"  she  said;  "if  you  knew  how  hungry  I 
am  you  wouldn't  be  so  deliberate.  Where  are  the  cups 
and  spoons  ?  Which  is  Tiger's  ?  Well,  you  may  use 
his." 

The  log  table  was  set  and  the  duck  ready  before  Hal 
tren  could  hunt  up  the  jug  of  mineral  water  which  Tiger 
had  buried  somewhere  to  keep  cool. 

When  he  came  back  with  it  from  the  shore  he  found 
her  sitting  at  table  with  an  exaggerated  air  of  patience. 

They  both  laughed  a  little;  he  took  his  seat  opposite; 
she  poured  the  coffee,  and  he  dismembered  the  duck. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  that  duck,"  she  said. 
"The  law  is  on  now." 

278 


PASQUE    FLORIDA 

"I  know  it,"  he  replied,  "but  necessity  knows  no  law. 
I'm  up  here  looking  for  wild  orange  stock,  and  I  live  on 
what  I  can  get.  Even  the  sacred,  unbranded  razor-back 
is  fish  for  our  net — with  a  fair  chance  of  a  shooting-scrape 
between  us  and  a  prowling  cracker.  If  you  will  stay 
to  dinner  you  may  have  roast  wild  boar." 

"That  alone  is  almost  worth  staying  for,  isn't  it?" 
she  asked,  innocently. 

There  was  a  trifle  more  color  in  his  sunburned  face. 

She  ate  very  little,  though  protesting  that  her  hun 
ger  shamed  her;  she  sipped  her  coffee,  blue  eyes  some 
times  fixed  on  the  tall  palms  and  oaks  overhead,  some 
times  on  him. 

"What  was  that  great,  winged  shadow  that  pas?ed 
across  the  table?"  she  exclaimed. 

"A  vulture;  they  are  never  far  away." 

"Ugh!"  she  shuddered;  "always  waiting  for  some 
thing  to  die!  How  can  a  man  live  here,  knowing  that  ?" 

"I  don't  propose  to  die  out -doors,"  said  Haltren, 
laughing. 

Again  the  huge  shadow  swept  between  them;  she 
shrank  back  with  a  little  gesture  of  repugnance.  Per 
haps  she  was  thinking  of  her  nearness  to  death  in  the 
inlet. 

"Are  there  alligators  here,  too?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  they  run  away  from  you." 

"And  moccasin  snakes?" 

"Some.  They  don't  trouble  a  man  who  keeps  his 
eyes  open." 

"A  nice  country  you  live  in!"  she  said,  disdainfully. 

"It  is  one  kind  of  country.     There  is  good  shooting." 

"Anything  else?" 

279 


A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

"Sunshine  all  the  year  round.  I  have  a  house  cov 
ered  with  scented  things  and  buried  in  orange-trees.  It 
is  very  beautiful.  A  little  lonely  at  times — one  can't 
have  Fifth  Avenue  and  pick  one's  own  grape-fruit  from 
the  veranda,  too." 

A  silence  fell  between  them;  through  the  late  after 
noon  stillness  they  heard  the  splash!  splash!  of  leaping 
mullet  in  the  lagoon.  Suddenly  a  crimson  -  throated 
humming-bird  whirred  past,  hung  vibrating  before  a 
flowering  creeper,  then  darted  away. 

"Spring  is  drifting  northward,"  he  said.  "To-mor 
row  will  be  Easter  Day — Pasque  Florida." 

She  rose,  saying,  carelessly,  "I  was  not  thinking  of 
to-morrow;  I  was  thinking  of  to-day,"  and,  walking 
across  the  cleared  circle,  she  picked  up  her  paddle.  He 
followed  her,  and  she  looked  around  gayly,  swinging 
the  paddle  to  her  shoulder. 

"You  said  you  were  thinking  of  to-day,"  he  stam 
mered.  "It — it  is  our  anniversary." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows.  "I  am  astonished  that 
you  remembered.  ...  I  think  that  I  ought  to  go.  The 
Dione  will  be  in  before  long — " 

"We  can  hear  her  whistle  when  she  steams  in,"  he 
said. 

"Are  you  actually  inviting  me  to  stay?"  she  laughed, 
seating  herself  on  the  soap-box  once  more. 

They  became  very  grave  as  he  sat  down  on  the  ground 
at  her  feet,  and,  a  silence  threatening,  she  hastily  filled 
it  with  a  description  of  the  yacht  and  Major  Brent's 
guests.  He  listened,  watching  her  intently.  And  after 
a  while,  having  no  more  to  say,  she  pretended  to  hear 
sounds  resembling  a  distant  yacht's  whistle. 

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"It's  the  red-winged  blackbirds  in  the  reeds,"  he  said. 
"Now  will  you  let  me  say  something — about  the  past  ?" 

"It  has  buried  itself,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"To-morrow  is  Easter,"  he  went  on,  slowly.  "Can 
there  be  no  resurrection  for  dead  days  as  there  is  for 
Easter  flowers?  Winter  is  over;  Pasque  Florida  will 
dawn  on  a  world  of  blossoms.  May  I  speak,  Kathleen  ?" 

"It  is  I  who  should  speak,"  she  said.  "I  meant  to. 
It  is  this:  forgive  me  for  all.  I  am  sorry." 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  said.  "I  was  a — a 
failure.  I — I  do  not  understand  women." 

"Nor  I  men.  They  are  not  what  I  understand.  I 
don't  mean  the  mob  I've  been  bred  to  dance  with — I 
understand  them.  But  a  real  man — "  she  laughed, 
drearily — "I  expected  a  god  for  a  husband." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said;  "I  am  horribly  sorry.  I  have 
learned  many  things  in  four  years.  Kathleen,  I — I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

"There  is  nothing  to  do,  is  there?" 

"Your  freedom — " 

"I  am  free." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  need  more  freedom  than  you 
have,  some  day." 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.     "  Do  you  desire  it?" 

A  faint  sound  fell  upon  the  stillness  of  the  forest ;  they 
listened ;  it  came  again  from  the  distant  sea. 

"I  think  it  is  the  yacht,"  she  said. 

They  rose  together;  he  took  her  paddle,  and  they 
walked  down  the  jungle  path  to  the  landing.  Her 
canoe  and  his  spare  boat  lay  there,  floating  close  to 
gether. 

"It  will  be  an  hour  before  a  boat  from  the  yacht 
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A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

reaches  the  wrecked  launch,"  he  said.  "Will  you  wait 
in  my  boat?" 

She  bent  her  head  and  laid  her  hand  in  his,  stepping 
lightly  into  the  bow. 

"Cast  off  and  row  me  a  little  way,"  she  said,  leaning 
back  in  the  stern.  "Isn't  this  lagoon  wonderful?  See 
the  color  in  water  and  sky.  How  green  the  forest  is! — 
green  as  a  young  woodland  in  April.  And  the  reeds 
are  green  and  gold,  and  the  west  is  all  gold.  Look  at 
that  great  white  bird — with  wings  like  an  angel's !  What 
is  that  heavenly  odor  from  the  forest  ?  Oh,"  she  sighed, 
elbows  on  knees,  "this  is  too  delicious  to  be  real!" 

A  moment  later  she  began,  irrelevantly:  "Ethics! 
Ethics !  who  can  teach  them  ?  One  must  know,  and 
heed  no  teaching.  All  preconceived  ideas  may  be  wrong; 
I  am  quite  sure  I  was  wrong — sometimes." 

And  again  irrelevantly,  "I  was  horribly  intolerant 
once." 

"Once  you  asked  me  a  question,"  he  said.  "We 
separated  because  I  refused  to  answer  you." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  the  color  flooded  her  face. 

"I  shall  never  ask  it  again,"  she  said. 

But  he  went  on:  "I  refused  to  reply.  I  was  an  ass; 
I  had  theories,  too.  They're  gone,  quite  gone.  I  will 
answer  you  now,  if  you  wish." 

Her  face  burned.  "No!  No,  don't — don't  answer 
me;  don't,  I  beg  of  you!  I — I  know  now  that  even  the 
gods — "  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The 
boat  drifted  rapidly  on ;  it  was  flood-tide. 

"  Yes,  even  the  gods,"  he  said.  "  There  is  the  answer. 
Now  you  know." 

Overhead  the  sky  grew  pink;  wedge  after  wedge  of 

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water-fowl  swept  through  the  calm  evening  air,  and 
their  aerial  whimpering  rush  sounded  faintly  over  the 
water. 

"Kathleen!" 

She  made  no  movement. 

Far  away  a  dull  shock  set  the  air  vibrating.  The 
Dione  was  saluting  her  castaways.  The  swift  Southern 
night,  robed  in  rose  and  violet,  already  veiled  the  forest; 
and  the  darkling  water  deepened  into  purple. 

"Jack!" 

He  rose  and  crept  forward  to  the  stern  where  she  was 
sitting.  Her  hands  hung  idly;  her  head  was  bent. 

Into  the  purple  dusk  they  drifted,  he  at  her  feet,  close 
against  her  knees.  Once  she  laid  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  peering  at  him  with  wet  eyes. 

And,  with  his  lips  pressed  to  her  imprisoned  hands, 
she  slipped  down  into  the  boat  beside  him,  crouching 
there,  her  face  against  his. 

So,  under  the  Southern  stars,  they  drifted  home  to 
gether.  The  Dione  fired  guns  and  sent  up  rockets, 
which  they  neither  heard  nor  saw;  Major  Brent  toddled 
about  the  deck  and  his  guests  talked  scandal;  but  what 
did  they  care! 

Darrow,  standing  alone  on  the  wrecked  launch,  stared 
at  the  stars  and  waited  for  the  search-boat  to  return. 

It  was  dawn  when  the  truth  broke  upon  Major  Brent. 
It  broke  so  suddenly  that  he  fairly  yelped  as  the  Dione 
poked  her  white  beak  seaward. 

It  was  dawn,  too,  when  a  pigeon-toed  Seminole  Indian 
stood  upon  the  veranda  of  a  house  which  was  covered 
with  blossoms  of  Pasque  Florida. 

Silently  he  stood,  inspecting  the  closed  door;  then 
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A    YOUNG    MAN    IN    A    HURRY 

warily  stooped  and  picked  up  something  lying  on  the 
veranda  at  his  feet.     It  was  a  gold  comb. 

"Heap  squaw,"   he  said,  deliberately.     "Tiger  will 

go." 

But  he  never  did. 


THE    END 


